


Baker Street: Part VIII

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [20]
Category: All in the Family (TV), CHiPs (TV), Doctor Kildare, Downton Abbey, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Anglo-Saxon, Army, Banking, Bigotry & Prejudice, Boats and Ships, Bullying, Camp, Cars, Class Issues, College, Double Penetration, Drugs, England (Country), Exploration, F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Framing Story, Fraud, Gay Sex, Government Conspiracy, Hiding, Indoctrination Theory, Infidelity, Inheritance, Injury, Jewelry, Justice, Lancashire, London, Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Murder, Northumberland, Organized Crime, Police, Politics, Rape, Religion, Revenge, Scotland, Spanking, Surrey, Technology, The Netherlands, The Royal Navy, Theatre, Theft, Threats, Threesome - M/M/M, Trains, Victorian, Wales, cover-up, dorset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 73,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1895-1896. Some calm between the still occasional storms as Sherlock and John face mass murder, buildings that fall down too soon, scheming thieves, cuddly toys, capricious clansmen, tired explorers, avenging angels and a murder without an evil stepmother. Plus a man who travels eight thousand miles just to make a certain lounge-lizard get the point (yes, John would have gone even further!). Then there are fatally misunderstood warnings, deadly church bells, modern technology going horribly wrong, false alibis, rampant classism, drugged youths and, most incredibly of all, a popular politician! (sic). But through it all though Sherlock and John have each other – until a new and deadly danger now looms, one rather too close to home.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Baker/Francis "Ponch" Poncherello, Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Kudos: 23





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts), [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



** 1895 **

**Interlude: Cold**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John feels the chill_

 **Case 215: The Adventure Of The Living Dead**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Mass murder on the high seas – by a foreign government!_

 **Case 216: The Adventure Of The Two Clansmen**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock rushes to Scotland to safeguard a clan's future_

 **Case 217: The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sabotage in South London, as Sherlock sorts out a folly's fall_

 **Case 218: The Theft Of The Bruce-Partington Plans**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Important papers are stolen – can they be recovered in time?_

 **Case 219: The Adventure Of The Cuddly Toy ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A fluffy adventure as Sherlock makes some children very happy_

 **Interlude: Thanks**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Lucifer realizes again that Benji's gratitude might yet kill him!_

 **Case 220: The Adventure Of The Purbeck Killing ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Justice rather than the law, as Sherlock lets a killer go free_

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** 1896 **

**Case 221: The Adventure Of The Avenging Angel**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Murder will out, as someone sees the light and sets out to kill_

 **Interlude: Squaring The Circle**  
by Sir Edward Holmes, Baronet  
_Sir Edward is concerned about one of his sons_

 **Case 222: Captain Whitesmith's Last Adventure ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A national hero's death may have been faked – but why?_

 **Case 223: The Adventure Of The Falkland Islander**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Randall Holmes gets a shock from eight thousand miles away_

 **Case 224: The Adventure Of The Classy Writer ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A face from the past seeks help over a college problem_

 **Case 225: The Adventure Of Sir Archibald Bunker ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock organizes a break-in – at Buckingham Palace!_

 **Interlude: The Locket**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_There is yet another Moment!_

 **Case 226: Blood In The Water**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The loss of the cutter 'Alicia' – but Sherlock avenges those slain_

 **Case 227: The Adventure Of The Doomed Heir ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A horrible case in which justice is left out in the open_

 **Case 228: The Muddle & Get Nowhere Murder ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A man killed with no visible marks – and found on a steam engine!_

 **Case 229: The Adventure Of The Boys' Camp ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_German politics, and someone else fails to take Sherlock's advice_

 **Case 230: The Adventure Of Lady Violet's Chauffeur ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The Selkirk twins have a problem – one Mr. Francis Poncherello_

 **Interlude: Mrs. Robinson**  
by Violet, Countess of Grantham  
_A grande dame has a ‘request’ to make of her husband_

 **Case 231: The Adventure Of The Hard Lesson ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_An annoyed blacksmith snaps, and someone gets a thrashing_

 **Case 232: The Adventure Of The Veiled Lodger**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Who wants to stop a controversial play from going ahead? A certain Mr. Holmes!_

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	2. Interlude: Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895: It may still be summer but a certain London doctor feels cold.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Earlier that year, the lowest ever recorded temperature in these islands had been recorded at Braemar in Aberdeenshire, -17º Fahrenheit (-27.2º Centigrade). I felt a similar chill in my heart at the end of that summer, having only narrowly saved my beloved Sherlock from yet another threat. After all we had been through with Moriarty he had recklessly endangered his life on a case, and I had been furious with him!

I do not know why I had taken this particular event so badly. Perhaps now that I had Sherlock (or at least Sherlock had me!) I knew for sure now that I could not go on without him. Of course there was the terrible prospect that he might be taken before me, but for that he continued to look painfully thin I knew that he was in perfect healthy and indeed in better shape that I who was over two years his senior. There was every likelihood that I would be taken first and in some ways I hoped for that – but just not yet.

And now complicating matters was the conviction of the great playwright Oscar Wilde for gross indecency, currently languishing in Pentonville before his transfer to Reading Gaol that autumn. For all that we Victorians were a lot more tolerant than later generations would paint us, we had limits, and he had stomped all over them with disastrous consequences all round. I was sure that most of the people in 221B knew what Sherlock and I had, and it showed the prevailing attitude that none of them ever went to the newspapers or society magazines about us where they would surely have been well remunerated for their tattling. Yes, they might also be viewing the surface of the Thames from down below soon after, once some of Sherlock's more interesting friends found out, but most of them did not know that.

Also there was the prospect that Sherlock's fearsome mother might be less than pleased at such a development. Which given that she was last seen working on some two-volume horror called 'Green Acres' about a farmer who hired out his six handsome sons to 'attend on' local ladies.... ugh!

Our only brief lighter moment was when we received a note asking me to go round to attend to Sherlock's cousin Mr. Lucifer Garrick who had pulled something (again!) during a visit from Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles. Sherlock thought that I was being a complete killjoy in telling him he should not mock his cousin – I noted how most unusually he went out for a walk immediately on our return and I was sure that was primarily to have a good laugh – but then even I had hard work not to smile when Mr. Jackson-Giles told Mr. Garrick that he would be 'staying on until he was better'.

I made a mental note to check the obituaries columns over the next few days!

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	3. Case 215: The Adventure Of The Living Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. A ship is lost at sea. A sadly common occurrence – except that one of those drowned is subsequently seen alive and well on a country railway station, only to be dead (again) just minutes later! Sherlock again crosses swords with his brother Randall who, sadly, is still Randall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the loss of the steamer 'Friesland'.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

The disappearance of the steamer 'Friesland' was a most shocking business for Sherlock and myself. The case itself was relatively straightforward even if the murderous brutality involved in what had happened proved breath-taking, especially given the 'motive'. Ironically given that he was near the top of list of people that I would cheerfully have pushed off Beachy Head, it was Sherlock's lounge-lizard of a brother Randall who achieved precisely the opposite of his all too clear intentions and brought us even closer together, at a time when my emotions were still raw after nearly losing the blue-eyed genius down a mine in Kent.

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As with our Kentish (mis-)adventure it all began with a book signing, my second such ordeal that year. Once again most of those waiting for my illegible scrawl to deface their literature were ladies but this time I was to be given an explanation as to why when one Charlotte asked me to dedicate her book to herself and her sister Belle. When I had finished writing I expected her to move away and let the next lady be seated but to my surprise she hesitated.

“Sir”, she said in a low voice, “I was wondering….. you and Mr. Holmes….”

She seemed to come to a halt there, and I stared at her, patiently waiting for either illumination or for the book-store’s staff to usher her away.

“I was just thinking”, she said, “you know.”

I did not ‘know’. I stared at her expectantly.

“Just with Mr. Wilde recently”, she said, blushing fiercely. “You never say anything but…. well, we ladies can sense these things.”

Fortunately it was at that precise moment that the book-store staff appeared to usher her away while I took a large gulp of my water and wished fervently that it was something stronger. The great writer Mr. Oscar Wilde whose latest play we had seen but a few months ago was now serving two years hard labour at the notorious Pentonville Prison (he would move to Reading Gaol in a couple of months' time from where he would pen one of his most famous works), having been convicted of gross indecency. Yet despite all my care over my writings that lady had worked out that…..

I really had to be more careful!

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As I have explained before, the general Victorian approach to relationships like mine and Sherlock's was to accept it provided – and this was a very, very large if not gigantic 'provided' - that those involved were discreet. It has to be said that the great Mr. Oscar Wilde was about as discreet as an express railway locomotive at speed, and that fateful year of 'Ninety-Five he had been pretty much the instrument of his own demise. Everyone knew full well that he and his 'friend' Lord Alfred Douglas were … well, they just _were_. But when Lord Alfred's father John Marquess of Queensberry (famed for earlier codifying the rules of pugilism; he had actually just sponsored the rule changes) had left a card describing the playwright as a 'somdomite' _(sic)_ at a London club in February of that year, Wilde had foolishly chosen to sue him. The outcome had been bitter and predictable; his case had swiftly collapsed, he had been arrested and charged himself almost immediately after, and he had just been sentenced.

There were more direct repercussions for someone in my family too, which I owed my wonderful Sherlock for pointing out to me. Now that the tangled skein of his own origins had finally been sorted, Mr. Teledamus Newton whom we had assisted after his flight from Norfolk to North Wales ('Relatively Speaking') was not actually a blood relation of Sherlock's but he was still my cousin, and his relationship with Mr. Alan Douglas, a cousin of Lord Alfred if through an illegitimate line, might well come out in all the speculation about the scandal. Sherlock very generously arranged for both men to move to Scotland under false names for a year, in what turned out to be a wise precaution because one 'journalist' did travel to Norfolk in order to try to find them.

This whole horrible _farrago_ along with that dratted woman's words made me even more anxious and it was a testament to the greatness of the man that Sherlock bore my increased 'mother-hen' tendencies with fortitude, including the fact that I grew increasingly nervous when he was out of sight. I was almost relieved therefore when we received our next case, little guessing what would ensue from it for our own relationship.

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It was a warm and pleasant morning in early September and we were still at breakfast when the bell rang. Thankfully it was repaired now; Sherlock was even more absent-minded of a morning of late and while it had been out of operation, he had answered one early caller at the door wearing nothing but a confused expression. I could still picture the poor lady shrieking as she had shot down the corridor with impressive speed; Sherlock before coffee was not for the faint-hearted. Indeed he could often be quite rough if he did not get his caffeine fix which I may on the odd occasion have been slow in bringing him.

I smiled at that particular Very Happy Thought, even if another part of me shuddered at the memory. Sherlock sighed resignedly, looked at the clock and rang one long bell in response (that meant 'send up after a short delay'). Sure enough, some little time later Mrs. Malone announced a ‘Mr. Elias Sexton’. He was a short, smartly-dressed man of around fifty years of age, almost completely bald and clearly very upset.

“Gentlemen I would like to ask you to investigate a most puzzling case”, he said. “I cannot make head nor tail of it myself and my dear wife – I am sure that if I told her she would think me quite mad!” 

Sherlock guided the gentleman over to the visitor’s chair and presented him with a small brandy which he accepted with alacrity and downed with impressive speed.

“Pray calm yourself and begin at the beginning”, my friend said soothingly as he poured our visitor a second drink. “My services are at your disposal but apart from the obvious facts that you have travelled down from the East Country this morning, you hail from somewhere around the Suffolk-Essex border, you are or have been in the military, and that the matter is of the greatest urgency, I know nothing of it.”

The man swallowed hard and contrived to look even more alarmed. Sherlock smiled.

“Your railway ticket bears the unusual conductor’s mark that is unique to the Great Eastern Railway Company, which serves Essex and East Anglia”, he explained. “Your tie is that of the Fifty-Fourth Essex Regulars, although as they are based in the port of Harwich and occasionally accept people from East Suffolk that is no guarantee of your being an East Saxon. Finally the first passenger train from that area has not long arrived at Liverpool Street Station which means that you left your home quite early. Your clothes indicate that you are prosperous enough to travel first-class yet there are no first-class coaches on that parliamentary train†, which means that you were prepared to endure a significant degree of discomfort in order that you could be here one hour earlier. A gentleman does not do that without good cause.”

Our visitor managed a shaky smile.

“Then if you can so easily explain just how my brother was alive several hours after he died, I would be quite grateful!”

My eyes widened.

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“It is all quite simple, Mr. Holmes”, our visitor said. “Simple, yet completely and utterly impossible! My brother Elijah conducted business which necessitated his making frequent trips to the Netherlands. On August the thirty-first he was due to return on the steamer 'Friesland', which is owned by the Orange Line. I did not expect to see him as we live our lives independently of each other except for Christmas, but the next day a policeman turned up at my door to tell us that the ship had last been lost. A Royal Navy patrol boat was the last to sight her and reported that she had been heading into a fog bank. She had been due to dock at Parkeston Quay approximately one hour after that sighting but she did not made port, and some wreckage has already been found that may be associated with her.”

“Yet you think that your brother is still alive?” I asked.

“There is more”, he said. “After hearing of my brother's apparent demise I travelled down to check up on to his widow Patricia who lives in the town of Brentwood.”

“The authorities did not go and inform her first?” Sherlock asked, surprised.

“She and Elijah had only just moved to a new house and I thought it likely that he would have had the old address still on his cards”, he said. “He was never good at keeping up with things. I was correct as it happened, for she received a visit on the following day.”

“Having left her I was returning to my home in Hadleigh in the county of Suffolk when my train was held at Manningtree Junction Station, where the branch-line to Harwich diverges. The train began to move, I chanced to look up from my newspaper - _and there was Elijah standing on the up platform!”_

“You are sure that it was him at that distance?” Sherlock asked. “Not perhaps what they call a _doppelgänger_?”

“We were identical twins”, our guest said firmly. “I knew him as well as I know myself. I did not know what to do at the time but I knew that I had to get back to him. The next station was Bently Junction, my change for the branch to Hadleigh, but instead I took the first train back to Manningtree thinking that I was sure to meet him as if he was heading back to Brentwood, he would likely take the slow train that I would arrive in.”

“Did you see anything?” I asked.

He gave me a haunted look, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

“I regret to say that I did”, he said. “Our train was halted outside the station and we had to walk along the track-side. A gentleman had either fallen or been pushed into the path of the Norwich express.”

We both winced.

“I will spare you the question”, he said flatly. “There was little enough left to recognize. He was however wearing his wedding-ring which had survived, and which I recognized as it is onyx and tiger's-eye, as well as of a most distinctive design. But there is something else.”

“Go on”, Sherlock said. 

“I was unsure as to what I should do next so I did not come forward to identify the body”, he said. “I do not know why I behaved thus; possibly some instinct warned me that it might be inadvisable. I returned home and did not of course tell poor Patricia what had happened; she had more than enough troubles of her own. Yet later that evening I read in the newspaper that my brother's body had been identified by someone claiming to be his wife – _a Mrs. Carstairs of all people!”_

“So your question is as to whether the gentleman you saw for a few seconds was indeed your brother?” Sherlock asked.

I was knowing him well these days. There was nothing in either his tone or manner that said it, yet I somehow knew that he was deeply concerned. This case was serious.

“Sir, I am one hundred per cent certain that it was”, Mr. Sexton said firmly. “Which means that there something very strange has happened in the North Sea. I am a man of moderate means but I will spend every last penny that I have to find the truth!”

He had a fanatical look about him and I knew that he spoke from the heart. Sherlock nodded.

“We will take this case”, he said. “Pray leave your card on the table and we will telegraph you immediately there are any developments. But sir....”

“Yes?”

“I must caution you, Sherlock said gravely, “that even though I have little as yet to go on, my instincts tell me that there is an element of deadly danger in this matter. I think that you were quite right not to step forward and identity your brother; indeed had you done so I rather fear that you would not have made it here today. If we take it that someone did murder your brother, then they are not going to take well to _you_ pursuing an interest in the affair. I must most strongly counsel you, sir, that you leave this matter solely with me and do not press it yourself in any way whatsoever. Did you speak to anyone else about this?”

The man shook his head.

“I did not tell my wife, although she knows me well enough to know something is wrong. I thought that I would see you first.”

“Tell your wife nothing”, Sherlock said firmly, “or she too may find herself in danger. If we are dealing with someone who would kill your brother, then as I said they would think nothing of increasing the body-count by any number in order to hide their nefarious dealings. I promise you that I will pursue this case to the best of my abilities and that I will keep you fully informed.”

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My bad feeling was only intensified by the way that Sherlock had spoken to our client at the end, and I sensed that this was going to be another major and possibly dangerous case. I was therefore more than a little relieved when his determination to commence work was frustrated by his own body which had only slowly recovered from our Kentish ventures, as the following day he contracted a severe cough. He spent most of the next week suffering in what was most definitely not silence – he was a tolerable patient except when he wanted to be on a case – and by the end of it I was in despair. I may or may not have selected a particularly vile chest-rub for him that had our maids refusing to come into the room with our lunch. I may or may not have also insisted on rubbing the concoction quite thoroughly into his skin.

All right I did, but he drove me to it. Besides I enjoyed it!

With Sherlock out of commission I decided one way to make sure that he did not go out of the house was to do some research for him, so I extracted a list of the information he wanted and set about obtaining it for him. He wished for a complete history of the Orange Line plus all their current craft and exact details of the vanished 'Friesland'. In return for my devoting my time to this he promised to not try to sneak out of the house (although the way he smelled with that rub, I was fairly sure that the Malones would have detected him the moment he had stepped out into the corridor!). I returned after a long day and related my findings to him.

“The company has been around for about twenty years”, I said. “They originally just ran ferries up and down the Dutch coast and to the Frisian Isles, not very successfully it seems, until two years ago they secured the right to run the service from the Great Eastern Railway’s new harbour at Parkeston over to Hook of Holland. At the same time they also began running services from the Hook across to Kingston-upon-Hull.”

“Quite an expansion”, he said. 

“Yes”, I said. “The railway company purchased a large stake in the business which I suppose must have given them the money that they needed. The 'Friesland' was almost brand-new, the second of four steamers ordered at the company’s own shipyards in Rotterdam to replace two older and smaller vessels both now scrapped. The 'Geldreland', the first of the class, runs on the Hull route while the 'Holland' has only just been completed and is running tests for the Parkeston route. They have not started work on the 'Zeeland' as yet.”

“Brand-new”, he mused. “I assume that it was insured?”

“I thought that too”, I said, “so checked. It was, but only for a quarter of its value if lost. The company policy is to increase the insurance as the ship ages, for the increased risk I suppose.”

He frowned at that for some reason.

“Did you manage to obtain plans for them?” he asked.

“Yes”, I said, “although there are only two sets. The Hull route ships have bigger engines and are about nine yards longer than the Parkeston ones but then that crossing is nearly double the distance. They also have red stripes along the side while the Parkeston ships have blue ones.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. I deposited all my paperwork on the table, and went to my room, but before I could reach the door he spoke.

“Did you choose that vile chest rub just to keep me home?” he demanded.

I blushed.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality”, I bluffed.

“I _am_ the patient!” he protested.

“And I am the doctor!” I quipped. “I shall be back out for dinner!”

I closed the door on him but not before I heard him chuckle. I smiled to myself.

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It was only the following day that a 'difficult' consequence of my day’s labours made itself manifest. I had insisted on Sherlock taking some cough-medicine and staying home at least for this day, and preferably the next. To my surprise he agreed to a further application of the unguent, although the cold that he now seemed to be adding to his ailments may have persuaded him of its merits. 

I was about half-done when we heard a commotion from outside the door. Someone, a woman judging from the voice, was insisting on coming to see us despite the maid’s protestations (the Malones were out shopping that morning, or there might well have been the sound of gunfire!). We looked at each other in surprise but before we could prepare in any way the woman burst through the door, only to stop in shock when she saw a half-naked Sherlock. Though not as shocked as I was.

It was Mrs. Michaela Hustings! Seriously, had I run over a sackful of black cats or something?

 _“Well!”_ she said.

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We were spared a prolonged period of staring at each other by the advent of Betty, whose shriek at seeing one of her mistress’ tenants half-naked and subsequent rapid withdrawal seemed to snap us out of our trances. Or at least it did for myself and Mrs. Hustings; Sherlock was quite unaffected by screaming maids and quite coolly got up, walking over to don a long silken dressing-gown that I had given him last Christmas before returning to his chair and bidding our unannounced guest to sit down. It did not escape my notice just how closely she eyed my friend during this move, though when she turned her gaze on me I did not care for the knowing look that she delivered. Then again I did not care for her, full stop.

“Visitors who burst in unannounced when I am being treated for a cough by my doctor must take what they see”, Sherlock said and I noticed with pleasure that there was an ice-cold edge to his voice. “Mrs. Hustings. How may we be of service?”

His tone implied quite clearly that he hoped any ‘service’ would be brief at worst. Unfortunately her opening words scotched that hope.

“I chanced to see you in the library, doctor”, she said, sitting herself down in the fireside chair. “You were researching the steamer 'Friesland'.”

I frankly did not see what business it was of hers, but I nodded.

“So?” I asked icily. I did not like the woman and saw no reason to hide that fact.

“My future husband was on that ship”, she said, to the surprise of us both. “Mr. Nicholas Oldman. If there is something strange about its sinking I have a right to know.”

“You have no rights….” I began only for Sherlock to hold up his hand.

“I am inquiring into a certain aspect of the loss of that vessel”, he said. “Of course I could not know of your ties to one of the seventeen passengers on that sailing, particularly as my investigations are at but an early stage. However, once I have reached my conclusions I will communicate them privately to you if you so wish.”

 _“If_ you can spare the time between massages!” she said scornfully. She stood up and tossed a calling-card on the side-table. “I had thought that you investigated crimes but clearly you have other interests now! Just like Mr. Wilde!”

She sailed to the door, but Sherlock was faster. The doorknob was pulled from her hands by his slamming the door shut. He seemed to tower over her and she shrank from him in terror.

“Understand this, madam!” he said and his voice was suddenly laden with a menace that I had never heard before. “If you make one single public insinuation against the good doctor here or against myself, then I will have no hesitation in instructing certain contacts of mine to make your own life decidedly.... interesting. Everything that you or those close you you have ever said or done that is even slightly questionable will be splashed across every national newspaper in the British Empire. That, I _guarantee!”_

She backed away from him in shock, trembling. He eyed her balefully for a moment then pulled the door open and gestured for her to leave, which she did. Almost as fast as the vanished Betty.

“Come, doctor”, he said, returning to the chair and removing his dressing-gown. “You will finish your application of the unguent now, if that is acceptable?”

“Oh, yes”, I said, still stunned by his fiery defence of me. “Yes, very.”

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I was still reeling from the encounter with Mrs. Hustings the following day, and was surprised when Sherlock yielded to my request to stay home for a further twenty-four hours, though he did ask me if I would do some further research for him on the Orange Line and the 'Friesland''s sister ship the 'Holland'. He seemed strangely depressed which worried me and I brought him back four bags of each of his flavoured barley-sugars from the Hector Road sweet-shop, along with my findings that evening. He had also received a note from Mrs. Hustings that day apologizing for her behaviour the day before and asking (politely) if he would indeed send her any findings relating to her fiancé. He had replied (curtly) that he would so do.

“I am surprised that you have not asked your lounge-lizard of a brother for help”, I said as I presented my findings to him that evening. His eyes lit up when he saw all that barley-sugar.

“I am sure that he is aware of my investigating this matter”, Sherlock said, unwrapping one of the sweets with the sort of happy expression he always had when I gave him anything. “Indeed the fact he has not yet visited is something I find quite welcoming.” He looked at me askance before adding, “as I am sure do you.”

I blushed at the truth in that observation.

“Have you any idea how the ship disappeared?” I asked.

“I am rather afraid that I have”, he said. “However I will not be able to fully resolve the case until Mr. Sexton answers the telegram that you sent him for me earlier. Yes, I asked Betty to get one of the boys to take it.”

“What did you want to know?” I asked.

“Whether there was anything found in his late brother's house that might indicate a sudden change of travel plans”, he said. “If so then the case will be all but complete.”

I stared in confusion but as usual he was not forthcoming with any more information. Then I remembered something else that he had asked me to check.

“You were right about the co-ordinates of the last sighting”, I said. “I double-checked them to make sure but the 'Friesland' would have struck the coast a little way south of Lowestoft had she continued on the course that she was on. Even given the fog, I wonder why she was so far off course.”

“I am very much afraid that she was not”, he said gravely.

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Mr. Sexton's telegram duly arrived the next morning and Sherlock responded by immediately dispatching a message to Inspector LeStrade asking him to call round. I was pleased; I had not seen our friend for some time as he had only recently returned from sorting out a police corruption scandal in Worcestershire. He had missed at least two baking days, although the thoughtful Mrs. Malone had put aside a slice of cherry-cake for him from the one earlier this week.

When he arrived however, he was not alone. He had brought two people with him, one of whom was a tall blond fellow with a fox-like expression to whom I took an instant dislike. It did not help that the other person was Mr. Randall Holmes.

“I am not having this meeting documented”, the mystery blond man said firmly. He had a foreign accent, possibly German.

“Would you rather that I hand my findings over to the 'Times' then?” Sherlock said coldly and he sounded unusually angry. “I believe that a case of mass murder by a Foreign Power, especially one which purports to be a friend of Great Britain, would most likely dominate the front pages for many days if not weeks.”

The man glared at him but did not respond.

“You would not do that, Sherlock”, his brother said. “We all have too much at stake here.”

“That is why your associate here is being given an undeserved chance to make reparations for his foul act”, Sherlock said curtly. “For the benefit of the doctor who _will_ take notes, I will state what you did then I will state what you are going to do to remedy matters, as far as they can be remedied. Kindly note that as I am not a government the concept of negotiation is unknown to me. I have also taken measures to ensure that, should you be foolish enough to make any attempts against me and mine then every newspaper in the land will know what you did before sunset. And” - he looked pointedly at his brother - _“so will Mother!”_

“Mr. Van Meyer will co-operate”, Mr. Randall Holmes said, shuddering for reasons that I knew full well (clearly word of Lady Holmes had reached his associate for he too turned deathly pale). “As will the Dutch government. I guarantee it.”

The other man scowled but did not speak. Sherlock nodded.

“This case hinged on one of the seventeen passengers on the 'Friesland' that fateful day”, he said. “Fittingly number thirteen on the list, Mr. Muhammad Ahmoud. He had travelled from Constantinople to Amsterdam and had then proceeded to the Hook to catch the ferry to England where he had business. Unfortunately while in the Netherlands he felt ill and went to see a doctor, only to be reassured that all was well. I am sorry to decry your profession, doctor, but he was lied to. The man had contracted a virulent form of smallpox.”

I shuddered at the mention of that terrible disease. It had once been a major killer across the world but way back at the start of this century the great Mr. Edward Jenner had shown that deliberately infecting people with the much milder cowpox gave them immunity from its nastier sister-disease and it was now virtually eradicated, at least in England. However old memories died hard.

“The sensible thing to do would have been to inform the patient and quarantine him”, Sherlock went on. “Instead the doctor, most unhappily, informed the Dutch government who did what governments always do in such situations, namely panic and proceed to run around like a headless chicken. In the forthcoming Continental War the position of the Netherlands will be strategically important, and for the Dutch to knowingly allow a smallpox-infected man into England would not make for good relations.”

“The government hastily came up with a murderous plan. Mr. Ahmoud and the other passengers are allowed to board – not the 'Friesland' but her sister ship the 'Holland'. That ship sails from harbour and once at sea the government agents placed on board knowingly and wilfully murder all the passengers on board, doubtless dumping the weighted bodies into the wide expanse of the North Sea whence they can never be recovered. Meanwhile the 'Friesland' which had slipped out before her sister sails around until she is spotted near a fog bank, then disappears. She then makes her rendezvous with her sister ship.”

I stared at my friend in shock.

 _“Seventeen innocent people!”_ I exclaimed. _“All murdered?”_

“Not quite”, Sherlock said. “There was a last-minute hitch in this most diabolical of schemes. Mr. Elias Sexton told me that his brother was indeed summoned back to Rotterdam just half an hour before he boarded the ship. Since he had been in the waiting-room along with Mr. Ahmoud there was the danger that he was infected. Dutch government agents tracked him down at Manningtree Junction Station but by the impenetrable workings of Providence Mr. Elias Sexton saw his brother the day _after_ he was supposed to have been drowned. Unfortunately not in time to save him too from being murdered in cold blood.”

There was a heavy silence in the room and my pen sounded absurdly loud as it scratched on the paper. I could hardly write given what I was hearing.

“What do you want?” Mr. Van Meyer ground out. 

Sherlock turned to him. 

“In the next twenty-four hours, one of two things will happen”, he said his voice laden with menace. “Either an anonymous and wealthy Dutch philanthropist will decide to donate a very large sum of money to the next of kin of all seventeen people on that ship. I do mean _very_ large, sir; I am sure that the recipients will all be able to live the rest of their lives in comfort and ease. Alternatively the 'Times' will have one of its most shocking front-page stories of its thus far mostly honourable existence. Your choice, sir. Though when you stand in front of St. Peter at those Pearly Gates, I do not believe that any amount of diplomatic sophistry will save you from the long drop. You will now leave.”

The diplomat scowled at him but stood and left followed by a shocked-looking LeStrade (so much so that Mrs. Malone later told me that he had to be called back to pick up his cake!). Mr. Randall Holmes, much to my annoyance, remained.

“You made a sensible choice there, brother”, he said.

“I did what was needed”, Sherlock said, scowling at him. “I loathe politics but I understand the necessity of maintaining good relations, even if it is with governments who think that wilful murder is acceptable practice.”

“Sherlock....”

“Do not pretend that the government of which you are a part would not have done exactly the same thing had the situation been reversed”, Sherlock said sounding tired. “Go away, Randall.”

“That was not what I was going to say”, his brother said. “Mycroft has called a meeting of the family trustees.”

I did not know what that meant but it clearly elicited a reaction from Sherlock. He stood up, coughed and glared at his brother.

“About what?” he demanded.

“He and Torver think that you and the doctor here are a danger”, Randall went on. “First with Lucifer, then Carlyon, and now all this fuss about Mr. Wilde.....”

“Get out!”

I barely heard the words but the look Sherlock was giving his brother threatened severe physical damage was imminent. It was one of the few times that I ever saw Mr. Randall Holmes look fearful.

“Sherlock....”

“Get out while you can still walk out!”

His brother sighed but stood up and left. Sherlock pulled himself slowly to his feet, looking strangely uncertain. I left my notes and walked over to him.

“I am sorry about that”, I said. “If I can.....”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Hold me.”

“What?”

I was shocked. He looked on the brink of tears.

“Just... please. I'm so cold, and so tired of it all. Just... hold me.”

I rushed over him and pulled him close. He was sobbing now and it broke my heart. We stood there for some time and he finally seemed to calm down a little.

“I need to see Martinson”, he muttered.

“Your lawyer?” I asked, confused. “Why?”

He looked up at me and for once he actually looked a little uncertain.

“That meeting”, he said slowly. “Mycroft and Torver are planning to try to disinherit me. Father and Mother are away at the moment and they are trying to act in their absences.”

“They cannot do that!” I said hotly. “You are as much a Holmes as they are!”

“But they would need all of us to agree”, he said, “and even if they persuaded Guilford, Carl and Anna would never agree.”

“Good!” I said fervently.

“I still need to see Martinson”, he said, pulling back a little. There were tears in those wonderful blue eyes and it nearly broke me to see them. “It is time that I accepted that with my luck as it has been of late, the worst may still happen.....”

“Sherlock! No!”

“It may, John”, he said gently. “If it does, even though we can never be married in the eyes of the law I want to leave everything I have and everything that I am to you.”

“Sherlock!”

“Please!” he almost begged. “Let me feel that I have lived my life to some purpose, not just so that my brothers can get even richer if the worst happens. Please!”

I kissed him gently and held him close again.

“Only if you let me do the same to you”, I said, knowing how much this meant to him. “Besides, I am older so I will likely go first. Deal?”

“Deal!” he said, smiling through the tears. “Shake on it?”

I grinned wolfishly.

“I was hoping for something a little more.... binding”, I said. “After all it has been a while since you had those cuffs on me.”

“Doctor Watson you are quite incorrigible!” he chuckled. “But yes. I like your idea of 'a binding contract'.”

And with that he led me to his bedroom. Where I went more than willingly.

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Postscriptum: It subsequently emerged that Mr. Van Meyer had, in the way of people in his line of 'business', acted first and sought the permission of his superiors only when his foul deed had been done. That time they stood by him but when two years later he again pushed his luck in circumstances of which I know not, Mr. Lucifer Garrick informed us that his body had ended up being fished out of the same ocean into which he had dispatched the luckless passengers of the 'Friesland'. As they rightly say, justice may oftentimes be delayed but it is seldom denied.

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_Notes:_   
_† Originally this term referred to trains that the railway companies were forced to run with cheap fares for the poor. Like all government measures it backfired; the annoyed companies simply ran such trains at times when virtually no-one was able to use them. By the time of this story the term had devolved into a generic term for any slow passenger train that ran very early or late; the signalman at the terrible Quintinshill disaster in 1915 warned his colleague that the 'Parley' was still outside the signal-box, but the warning came too late. In modern times the meaning has shifted again; today it refers to a train run on a line that a company wishes to close but cannot, and so runs an inconveniently timed one train per week as its 'service'._

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	4. Case 216: The Adventure Of The Two Clansmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. A dying clan chieftain in the Outer Hebrides reaches out to Sherlock in an attempt to secure his clan's future. Except that there is a bit of a problem.... and unfortunately for poor John, rather too many sea-crossings!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

When one considers the horrors of humanity that I have faced in my time, I do not know why I was so affected by the 'Friesland' case even given the high body-count. Possibly it was because it followed so soon after my brush with death in a Kentish mine and my emotions were still a little raw, because thereafter I became even more focussed on life (and of course John) than ever before.

I knew my love so well by now and he had doubtless expected for me to wake up the morning after the resolution of the sinking determined to put the matter behind me, as I was usually wont to do. But the foul actions of those of my own blood had resolved me to so what I really should have done a long time ago, and I insisted that same day on our going to Mr. Martinson and drawing up our wills, leaving all we had (save a few personal possessions of John's which he had promised to his brother Stephen and a bequest that I wished to bestow on my Boys' Home) to each other. I was perhaps a little more vigorous than usual with John that evening and he may just possibly have had an allergic reaction to the dust in the room (or so he claimed) but he held me and loved me as always. I so did not deserve that man.

John determined to remain close to me and told his surgery that 'a family emergency' precluded him from coming into work for the next few weeks. I needed him now more than ever and I remember that I reacted quite badly when he went down to talk to Mrs. Malone one time, which was most foolish of me. My useless brother Randall had come round again two days after that fateful meeting but I had flatly refused to see him and John had forcibly inserted himself in the doorway to prevent his entrance. He had slunk away back to whichever hole he had crawled out of, unfortunately I might add as I had not had time to find my gun.

(Yes, John did offer to take it and go shoot him for me but Mother might then have been Mildly Irritated. Or as my sister Anna called, it a Level One).

News of my state of mind of course got around and two days after my brother's unwelcome re-appearance my mother and father returned from the Continent. I only knew about this because Anna contrived to 'accidentally bump into John at the local post-office' (quite impressive as her house at the time was in Wandsworth, the other side of the Thames!) and to inquire after me. She and I had always got on well but John, who was more of a mother-hen than ever at this time, told her in all honesty that he did not think that I was up to receiving visitors and especially family. I evinced little interest at the news; the following day a telegram arrived asking me to come to the family home to which I sent back the reply, 'No'. 

John did smile as he told me that my mother's return had had Consequences (capital letter required) for some people. She had been Seriously Displeased (a Level Six) at her elder sons' actions, and although Mycroft and Randall had wisely found some 'urgent business' that had necessitated their leaving town for a while, she had caught up with Torver and decked him – at a court ball in front of the Queen herself! The villain had had to endure being splashed across the front page of the 'Times' and I had had precisely zero sympathy for the rat. Indeed, I later learned that he had encountered further problems that may or may not have been caused by friends and associates of mine, which was all well and good. He deserved them and more!

It was fortunate also that I had another case so soon, and one which required me to be away from the capital. Far, far away.

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I felt so sorry for poor John as he leaned over the side of our boat, moaning piteously. This had to be the Good Lord's oft-quoted sense of humour at work after he had remarked in our last case that he was glad he himself had been spared a sea-voyage. Yet here were were barely a week later having to make a journey of several hours as the little steamer ploughed its way out to the Western Islands, while John's last meal ploughed its way down the sides of said steamer.

A telegram requesting our most urgent assistance had arrived from Garry Castle in distant Inverness-shire the previous evening and we had been able to make the night sleeper, even if we had not actually gotten much sleep. It was totally – well, mostly—John's fault; two days earlier he shown me a picture from a catalogue he had picked up of a gentleman's swimming-costume and observed that it had to qualify as one of the ugliest inventions ever. I had responded by suggesting how not even that would stop me taking the man I loved, and he had made that most beautiful whine of his that he came out with whenever he was truly aroused. A costume had duly been obtained from a shop close by Euston and.... let us just say it had not survived to see Glasgow! Still I could always order another one. Or three.

I had felt a little better as we had continued north-west. I may perhaps have felt just a trifle smug related to someone's dazed expression as he had sat opposite me as our train wended its way to Mallaig and the boat to points west. Unfortunately during that fairly short journey the weather had turned exceptionally bad and while I would not normally have subjected the man I loved to a rough sea-crossing, the telegram had as I said expressed a strong degree of urgency so we had had to press on. But I would make it up to John later. 

There was surely a shop that sold swimming costumes somewhere up here...

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The Western Isles (or Outer Hebrides) are a smattering of islands that stretch over one hundred and twenty-five miles some five hours travel from where we embarked on the Scottish mainland. The largest island, Lewis & Harris, is as the name suggests split between the counties of Ross & Cromarty (Lewis) and Inverness-shire (Harris) while to the south lie the smaller islands of North Uist, Benbecula, South Uist and Barra. 

We sailed past Mull although we were too far north to see the fabled nearby island of Iona, and it took some time (probably a long one as far as poor John was concerned) before we saw our destination of South Uist, a hundred square miles of mostly barren rock. Fortunately our destination was in the town where the ship docked, Lochboisdale. It was a small but pleasant enough place and there was a fair-sized hotel where we were able to secure rooms. I insisted that John take some time to recover from his arduous voyage and that I would see our client alone, especially as I knew that he was not well. 

He was asleep before I left the room!

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Mr. Alexander MacGarry was the owner of the local castle, unmistakeable as it loomed dark and foreboding above the small town although when I arrived I found it well-maintained and almost homely in its interior. Our client was only about forty years of age but looked much older, and I did not need John with me to know that he was not long for this world. He was I knew head of the Clan whose name he bore and I guessed, correctly as it turned out, that that was part of his reason for requesting my help. A nurse fussed around him before he dismissed her and she scowled as she flounced away, although she did look at me in a way that would doubtless have annoyed a certain someone.

I would probably mention that to said someone some time. Once his stomach had stopped heaving, of course. I was considerate like that.

“Thank you for answering my summons, Mr. Holmes”, Mr. MacGarry said, his voice sounding as broken as he himself looked. “I am hoping that you may be able to assist me in keeping my Clan in one piece.”

“Your request sounded most urgent”, I said, “and fortunately I had just finished my most recent case so was able to attend.”

_(That was mostly true. The shocking murder of seventeen innocent people had been resolved as much as had been possible but regrettably had I still had to contact the ever efficient Miss St. Leger to make sure that the deal I had secured had indeed been implemented. It was sad that one could not trust the word of people and especially those who claimed to be 'public servants', but that was the way of the world and probably always would be. Besides, putting distance between myself and the capital was arguably wise just now otherwise I might well have murdered a certain lounge-lizard brother of mine which would have been terrible for... for some reason, I suppose)._

“My doctors say that I have as little as a week left, maybe less”, Mr. MacGarry sighed. “When I die, the situation as it stands is most worrisome. I had but one child, my namesake Alexander, but he married against my wishes to a lady from Newfoundland and left Scotland to live with her. They had four children, all boys, before they both died in a shipping accident.”

I thought instinctively back to the 'Friesland'. My host nodded.

“It was indeed an accident”, he said. “I thought that too and had it checked. His sister-in law who stepped in to raise the children agreed that the eldest boy, Hamish, be returned home so that he might succeed as Clan chief one day, and he now lives with me. But he is not yet five years of age and cannot of course take charge for many a year.”

“So what is the problem?” I asked.

“I have two brothers”, he said. “Colin and Dermot, both some years younger than myself. Colin was always the wayward son in our family and when he reached twenty-one a few years back he took himself off to the island of Barra south of here to work and live as a fisherman. His choice which I respected, but with my life drawing to its conclusion I need him back so that he can govern in my grandson's name until he is of age.”

I looked at him shrewdly.

“I take it that your brother Dermot is not so suited to that role?” I guessed. The man shuddered.

“It is not that I think he would ever harm young Hamish, especially with the boy having three brothers behind him”, he said. “But he is incredibly lazy and I am sure that he would mismanage things. There may not be much left by the time Hamish comes of age. I am hoping that you may be able to persuade Colin to return to the fold and keep his younger brother away from the levers of power. Dermot was thinking of going abroad himself but naturally he has delayed his departure to see how events transpire.”

“Delaying his own sailing to see if his ship comes in first”, I said dryly. “I know the sort; thankfully one of the less dangerous types that I tend to come across but still capable of rather too much in the way of harm. How does one get to the island of Barra, may I ask?”

The gentleman hesitated.

“There is a further problem”, he said. “When I realized how things were I sent both for your help and dispatched someone to appeal to Colin to return, unlikely though I felt that to happen. My man returned yesterday to tell me that he is no longer in Castlebay and he did not know whither he had gone.”

Hence my task had just got that much harder. I sighed inwardly.

“We had better start our search there anyway”, I said. “It is our only lead.”

“There is a boat that steams the length of the island every two days”, he said, “so it only runs three times a fortnight. “I have therefore arranged for a local fisherman to take you there tomorrow, if that is acceptable?”

I thought wryly that it was acceptable for me but possibly not for someone else's stomach. I was increasingly glad that I had decided to pack so many stomach powders for this trip.

“Of course”, I smiled.

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Mercifully the rough seas of that day had calmed by the following morning, and after a long night of prolonged manly embracing that in no way, shape or form ever resembled something that started with the third letter of the alphabet and that rhymed with huddling, the two of us embarked on a small fishing-boat for Barra mercifully just ten miles to the south. The islands were quite breathtaking in their scenic beauty and I thought it a pity that they were so isolated, although maybe that helped keep too many people from settling in the area and eventually spoiling what had brought them there.

It was not long before we were sailing into Castlebay which turned out to be an attractive little town. John had rolled his eyes when I had been able to converse with Constantine, the young boat owner who I was surprised to learn was actually just twenty years of age, in his native Gaelic tongue and he had told me that my best bet for locating someone who worked out of this place as a fisherman was the small port office, which turned out to be basically a railway platform shelter with aspirations. A fierce-looking Scotswoman who for some reason made me instinctively think 'Boadicea' stared suspiciously at us when we entered, and even though he had for some reason moved behind me I could actually feel John pouting when she smiled at me rather too much.

“MacGarry?” she said rifling through a set of papers and looking perplexed as she did so. “That'd be Colin who left a few weeks back. Good fellow.”

“Do you happen to know where he went?” I asked hopefully. I was beginning to realize why Mr. MacGarry's servant had come back from here empty-handed. The urge to flee from this woman was becoming ever stronger!

She did some more checking (at least that kept her busy) then, to my relief, nodded.

“He bought a half-share in a boat belonging to a cousin of his who works out of Scalasaig”, she said. “Fellow by the name of Alan MacGarry.”

“Where is Scalasaig?” John asked.

“Colonsay, about seventy miles south-east of here”, she said.

John coughed. It may or may not have sounded like a whine of terror.

“Might you know how we could best get there?” I asked. “I am trying to trace Mr. Colin MacGarry and the matter is of considerable urgency.”

She gave me another look. I was sorely tempted to start hiding behind John!

“You'd have to go back to Lochboisdale then take the boat to Oban”, she said. “From there the boat out to Colonsay goes twice a week. There's no other way there.” 

It all seemed quite hopeless. I thanked her for her time and bowed out, almost fighting John in the doorway in my eagerness to be away from her. To my surprise the fisherman Constantine was still sat on the bench nearby smiling.

“Knew that Highland Mary would scare the living daylights out of you!” he chuckled. “Any luck?”

“All bad”, I sighed. “The gentleman we are seeking is several days' travel away on an island called Colonsay, and every hour counts in our quest.”

The fellow scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. 

“Her Majesty is on Skye just now”, he said.

We both stared at him. That was relevant _how?_

He chuckled.

“That cousin of yours you mentioned in your stories”, he said. “The one named after the devil.”

“How could Luke – Lucifer help?” I asked wonderingly.

“'Cause whenever Her Maj is in the area there's always a warship along for the ride”, he said. “You could borrow that.”

The fellow was a genius!

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A hasty telegram to London later and it was arranged that 'H.M.S. Ajax' would indeed be made available for us. The ship was currently off the northern coast of Skye, could be with us in about four hours and would have us on Colonsay before the end of the day. Luke, quite unnecessarily, said that he would have written more to us but he was sat in on a boring, long meeting just now. I knew full well that that 'meeting' which was 'boring' a long way into him was called Benji, damn the villain! I made a mental note to 'accidentally' drop off some more supplies from a certain Baker Street shop to a certain Great Eastern Railway worker. I mean, come on! There was sharing and then there was _'sharing'!_

The 'Ajax' was an old ironclad, having been reduced to the reserve some four years back and, most fortuitously as far as we were concerned, assigned to Scottish coastal patrols. She was capable of some thirteen knots (about fifteen miles per hour) and her captain duly put on best speed to land us safely in Scalasaig while there was still about an hour of light left. He said that he would wait to see how we got on, and even better, the island was large enough to merit a telegraph office from which we could hopefully inform poor Mr. MacGarry of our success. If we were successful, that was.

In normal circumstances I would have sought out the small hotel at that back of this non-metropolis and settled in for the night, especially as John was again looking a little queasy (the sea had been fairly calm but the ship's old design had made for a rather bumpy crossing). Unfortunately our client's state of health meant that we did not have that luxury and I sought out the port office here to see if I could find the missing Mr. Colin MacGarry. A young worried-looking fellow called Mr. Stuart Macduff checked through his small booklet for me.

“I am new so I do not yet know all the men”, he said apologetically. “Yes, here it is. The 'Seasigh' owned by Mr. Alan MacGarry and his cousin Colin. If you go along the harbour you will find a board with all the boats listed on it by the first set of steps; it has a sloped mini-roof over it to help keep off the rain. The men mark it every time they come in and out of port, so that should tell you if they are at sea just now.”

I thanked him for his help and tipped him (even John had been surprised as how much I had given Constantine the Lochboisdale fisherman, but then he had been pivotal in what I hoped would be a successful resolution to this case). We duly found the board and fortunately the boat in question was in harbour so we walked along looking for it. And right at the end there she was, a brown-haired young fellow in his late twenties working at unloading her while a fellow a few years older and with light-blond hair lounged lazily on the grass nearby smiling at his colleague doing all the work.

“Good afternoon?” I said politely. “I am looking for a Mr. Colin MacGarry.”

Both men looked at us uncertainly. It was the blond fellow who spoke first.

“Why might you be looking for that gentleman, sir?” he asked cautiously.

“I bring a message from his brother Alexander, chief of the Clan”, I said. “Mr. MacGarry's presence is welcome at Garry Castle. Welcome and desperately needed.”

The two men looked at each other in silence before the blond fellow spoke again.

“I doubt that Alex would want anyone around him just now”, he said dryly.

I thought wryly that he knew of the clan chief's illness despite its recent advent and the dozens of miles of sea between them. Gossip really is the fastest thing after light.

“It is not for he himself”, I said, “as he is well aware that his time in this world is short. He is concerned that his younger brother Dermot will likely ruin the estate while he is in charge in the name of the chief's grandson Hamish, who is but a boy. Clan loyalty demands the return of the middle brother to prevent this.”

“Clan loyalty did not stop my father making my life so miserable that I had to leave home”, the blond fellow said sharply, “nor did it extend to either of my brothers speaking up for me. Not even to asking me back once the old man had gone off to Hades!”

“Your elder brother did check up on you”, I countered. “He wished to respect your right to live your life the way that you wanted, but now the Clan itself needs you. Can you not see that?”

The fellow sighed.

“I am no leader of men, sir”, he said. “I do not even know your name.”

“I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, “and this is Doctor John Watson.”

Mr. Colin MacGarry, for surely it was he, looked pointedly at John.

“Then you are about to be witness to a rare thing, sir”, he said sounding almost bitter. “A failure on your friend's excellent record.”

“Col?”

His colleague on the boat had come onto the quayside. This had to be the cousin, Alan.

“You should go”, he said. “Lots of people depend on your brother for their livelihoods. We both know what Dermot is like; he will ruin them!”

Mr. Colin MacGarry's face darkened.

“It is you who do not understand Al, for all you are blood!” he almost growled. “I was forced out of house and home by those people. Family? I owe them _nothing!”_

“Yet I am family”, his cousin said, “and if I remember correctly, I stood by you in your hour of need.”

“Then you go and do it.”

We all stared at Mr. Colin MacGarry.

“What?” he said. “Al is brilliant at that sort of thing, far better than wasting his life on some daft boat. And he actually _likes_ people though Lord alone knows why. I would be useless at all that paperwork but am happy here. Why not?”

I looked at the two men and thought, why not indeed? It was clear that Mr. Colin MacGarry had little in the sense of duty and was at least prepared to recognize that fact, while his cousin had plenty. Also he was a MacGarry. Maybe... just maybe.

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Mr. Alan MacGarry went to pack while I went off to send some telegrams and John went to tell the captain of the 'Ajax' that we would shortly be with him. I doubt that my love had ever loved me more when I said that he could stay behind on Colonsay while the two of us headed back north-west.

We reached Lochboisdale in the dark (I felt a little guilty at using a Royal Navy ship as a taxi but needs must) and we hurried to the post-office where, thanks to the wonders of technology the telegrams that Luke had sent me were waiting for me. Then it was off to Garry Castle where poor Mr. Alexander MacGarry was waiting for us. Even in so short a time he seemed to have declined. 

I explained what had happened and he raised his eyebrows.

“Will that really work?” he asked warily.

“By your adopting your cousin as your son it will enable you to make him acting Clan chief”, I said. “He cannot succeed to the title as he is not the closest blood male, but his right to act as your grandson's guardian cannot then be challenged.”

“I swear to do my best by the boy, sir”, Mr. Alan MacGarry said stoutly. “You have my word as a MacGarry on that.”

The Clan chief looked at him for a moment then nodded.

“Where do I sign?”

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Mr. Alan MacGarry would have to return to Colonsay to sort matters out there, but he told me that he would be staying with his cousin until the end (I thought that that was especially good of him considering how tortuous his journey back there would be, although he said that he hoped to persuade one of the fishermen to take him there when the time came). I took the ship back to the smaller island, sleeping during the unhurried night journey though I slept little, missing my wonderful love beside me.

John and I had a joyous reunion – we did not leave our hotel room all that morning – and as the ferry to the mainland was not until the following day we went for a walk around the little island. It was barely a mile across but the exposed western coast was very different from the sheltered eastern one, the Atlantic rollers surging in relentlessly on the empty golden sands. If it had not been for the biting cold and remote location it would have made for a perfect seaside resort.

“It all worked out then?” John asked. I nodded.

“Mr. Alan MacGarry's position is impregnable now that he has been adopted”, I said. “Luke told me that in this day and age even documents sent by telegram are accepted as legally valid. Now let us have sex on the beach.”

He spluttered incoherently, then gasped as he turned to find me already undressing. 

“Here?” he said in a high-pitched voice. I grinned.

“We are hardly likely to be disturbed”, I said. “Besides, I have always wanted to roll over among the waves on a sandy beach with the man I love.”

He nodded fervently and then contrived to almost fall over his own feet as he tried to remove his clothing. I was as usual naked far quicker and sprawled out on the golden sands as he whined in exasperation at his slowness. Then finally he was done and he almost fell on top of me before I began to roll him over, sand getting into all sorts of places where gentlemen do not usually have sand. But then we were hardly behaving as gentlemen.

He moaned as we finally came to a rest with me on top, then almost cried as I reached down and grabbed both our now erect cocks. 

“My own beautiful merman from the sea”, I praised. “Come!”

So come he did, erupting with a cry that was hopefully lost amid the pounding waves otherwise it would surely have been heard back in Scalasaig. I followed him just seconds later and we lay there as the Atlantic rollers swept past us, happy and sated.

I was so damn lucky. Although that sand got _everywhere!_

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Postscriptum: We arrived in Oban to a sad telegram from Mr. Alan MacGarry saying that his Clan chief and adoptive father had gone to meet his Maker, albeit happy in the knowledge that affairs were settled. With some help from me he was actually able to sort out matters concerning his boat without having to battle his way back to Colonsay and back, instead settling into life at the castle from which the unreliable Dermot MacGarry soon after decamped to the New World. It was perhaps one of what John called my more 'ragged solutions' but I think it was the best that I could have achieved in the circumstances.

Mr. Alan MacGarry's tenure of office was marked by one incident of note some four years later in which I further assisted him. He had by that time married a local lady when the death of an uncle of hers who had been in the Army led to the couple unexpectedly inheriting a large estate on the mainland which, sad to say, several of said uncle's relatives tried to contest. I was able to assist him in fending off their efforts and he used the income from that estate to establish a hospital for wounded soldiers in Inverness. He, his wife and six children moved there nearly a decade later when Mr. Hamish MacGarry came of age; indeed the hospital expanded and became so famous such that the new Clan chief's former guardian became Sir Alan MacGarry. Rarely was an honour more deserved.

And yes, there was a shop in Scotland that sold swimsuits. Although the red-and-white striped horror that even John baulked at wearing did not survive to see London after another long night in a sleeper car when we got very little sleep!

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	5. Case 217: The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. A case from the world of architecture and builders where what goes up sometimes comes down rather sooner than expected, as the English weather frustrates a scheme that is pure folly.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I do not think it had ever taken me quite so long to manage the tortuous process known as sitting down. Since our return from Scotland, Sherlock had, thankfully, been much more his normal self – except that his sex drive had somehow managed to double from an already high base! I ached in places I had not even known that I had been possessed of, and thanked my lucky stars that I was still not having to go into the surgery. A cab ride would surely have killed me in my current state!

Lord but it was wonderful!

Mr. Champion Smirker of Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-Five sauntered over to his own chair and looked far too unruffled for someone who had just spent the best part of the last hour shredding my few remaining vestiges of manliness. I would have glared at him but all those facial muscles took a lot of moving.

“Is there anything of interest in the paper today?” he asked.

I reached across for the 'Times' rather too quickly and a burst of pain shot across my poor abused backside. Thank the Lord that he had spent the last ten minutes rubbing in that cooling unguent that we now kept copious supplies of. I silently blessed the creator of that most brilliant of Victorian inventions, even if we may possibly have been putting it to a use that they had perhaps not quite intended. 

“The Football Association’s Challenge Cup has been stolen from a shop window in Birmingham”, I read. 

“Hmm”, he said. “If there is nothing more interesting than that then we could always go back to bed?”

I read faster. My poor body could surely not stand such a thing, and the part of me that was demonstrating its hearty approval of the idea could really show some better timing! It was almost as bad as someone's knowing smirk!

“More wars in Africa… some roads still blocked by fallen trees after late summer storms.... rumours of another political crisis, as if that is news… they are trying a new form of rugby football† in the North.... and a house has apparently been blown down in Norwood.”

He raised an eyebrow at that last item.

 _“Apparently_ been blown down?” he asked, clearly bemused. “Is there some doubt as to whether it is still 'up'?”

I quickly scanned the short article.

“It seems that it was being demolished by a group of local builders and a part of it collapsed because of last night's high winds”, I said wondering only briefly how I had not noticed the bad weather and then realizing that I had had other more pressing – literally – concerns at the time. “Carelessness, I suppose. There was minor damage to the roof of a neighbouring property but no-one was injured.”

“How odd”, he commented. 

Further conversation (and molestation!) was prevented by the arrival of breakfast and we forswore the paper for the delights of Mrs. Malone’s cooking. At least Sherlock's eyes lit up at the sight of his intolerably crispy bacon. I had noted that our landlady had increased my friend's already copious daily rations of ex-pig, bless her.

Yes, he still got half of mine as well. No, I was not 'whipped', thank you very much. Besides, when he was eating at least I got a respite from That!

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It was the following day after another long hard night – I had had to read the morning paper standing up because no way was I sitting down for some time yet - when the mysterious collapsing house became our very next case with the arrival of Mr. Lachlan Jones to Baker Street. He was a short, middle-aged man with fiery red hair, and thin to the point of being wiry. When he spoke he had a slight Scots accent; somewhere in the Borders I judged as it sounded similar to my late mother's. 

“You may have read of part of my case in the newspapers, gentlemen”, he said brusquely. “The matter of 'Fortinbras House'?”

Sherlock looked surprised but I whispered ‘Norwood’ to him and he nodded.

“What connection do you have to that edifice, sir?” he inquired.

“My business was demolishing it, sir”, he said. “And someone is trying to demolish my business!”

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“I hope that you will can spare the time to come down and see the building for yourself, sir”, he said still looking indignant, “or at least what remains of it. The place was a folly erected some fifty-three years ago by an eccentric retired merchant with more money than sense. Though as a builder I should probably not say that; those are some of my best clients!”

I smiled as I made notes. Still standing. And still annoyed by someone's smirk, damn the fellow!

“The area has been developed since then and there are now houses up to the edges of its grounds”, our visitor said. “The original owner died some twenty years ago and the local council recently decided to acquire the land from his grandson who had just inherited it on his uncle's passing. The young man lives in Scotland and had no interest in moving to the area, even had he wanted to live in the damn thing. A structural survey showed that the building was in an even worse state than it looked from the outside, on the brink of toppling over which meant that it would have to be slowly and carefully demolished. It did not help that it was full four storeys high and the long, narrow plot meant that it was not that far from the houses either side of it. Which was where my company came in.”

“You were employed to demolish the property?” Sherlock asked. The man nodded.

“The council invited three bids from local bidders and chose Smith & Jones”, he said proudly. “There is of course the standard business rivalry with both the other firms but with one of them, Ammon & Sons, it has become quite personal of late. Mr. Blair Ammon, a fellow I would not trust with tuppence to go shopping, argued with and disowned his son Arthur who came to work for us part-time while he studies at college. Only a few hours a week but it has greatly soured relations and they were bad enough to start with. Mr. Ammon has since re-written his will and settled the business wholly on his other son, Samuel; he took out an advertisement in the 'Times' just to make sure that everyone knew.”

 _Families,_ I thought wryly.

“What is the other company called?” Sherlock asked, nodding for some reason.

“Flowerdown Builders”, our guest said. “They are based just over the border in Thornton Heath so we rarely have dealings with them. Except for the occasional exchange of supplies when one of us is short for some reason, and they have always been helpful when that has happened.”

“Is it your opinion that Mr. Blair Ammon was behind the sudden collapse of this building?” Sherlock asked. The builder nodded.

“We lost some equipment on the site but the worst thing is the damage that it has done to our good name”, he lamented. “Unless I can prove we were victims of a conspiracy then our chances of getting future business are poor. On top of everything else I had to sack a man recently, a Mr. Sasha Ivanovic. Russian or some part of the world around there; I had only just employed him and had thought that he was doing a good job, but I caught him taking supplies so he could sell them on. I do not know if he was in Mr. Ammon's pay but I suspect he was.”

“A breath of fresh air would do us good”, Sherlock said. “As my knowledge of the building trade is limited perhaps you can spare one of your staff to run through the demolition process with me; I feel that an understanding of the _minutiae_ involved would be useful to my understanding of the case. If you leave your card I will contact you before I come to Norwood tomorrow.”

The builder smiled.

“Thank you, sir”, he said. He stood, bowed and left.

Tomorrow, I thought thankfully. Time for my poor abused backside to recover from his recent voracious love-making and.... why was he looking at me in that way? Oh no! Surely not at this time of day?

“You do not wish to go today?” I asked hoping to distract him.

“I wish to do a little research first”, he said. “I shall go and send a couple of telegrams that will assist me when we do go down to Norwood.”

“I see”, I said.

“Then I want you naked and lying face down on the bed when I come back”, he said casually. “”I think we might use that new vibrator with the extra protrusions.”

Lord above, he really was trying to kill me!

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Mercifully the love of my life gave me the rest of the afternoon to recover from an experience that had gotten me so hard that I could have gone to work for our builder client and used part of my anatomy to hammer in nails! A generous application of cooling unguent during which I may or may not have cooed with pleasure, followed by a prolonged session of manly embracing (Sherlock liked that sort of thing and I was more than prepared to oblige him, especially if it meant recovery time for my poor, broken body) ensured that the following morning I was able to face the prospect of a train journey without breaking into a cold sweat. We therefore decamped to Victoria Station and a slow London. Brighton & South Coast Railway train which ambled its unhurried way past London's slowly growing southern tendrils before finally reaching West Norwood Station. Thank the Lord, or at least the Railway Company, for those padded seats in first-class!

Sherlock elected to first go and see the remains of the folly. The road itself was closed off and we had to alight from our cab (one with less than no suspension, I might add!) some distance away. It was not a pretty sight; the building must once have looked like a medieval castle keep judging from what remained of one corner, but the western side of the building had collapsed tumbling across the grounds with some stones having struck the roof of the neighbouring house from the sheeting over the slate roof. There were men at work erecting scaffolding around the folly, presumably in an attempt to stabilize it. 

From the wreckage it was a short cab ride to the builder's yard of Smith & Jones. Mr. Jones greeted us and thanked us for coming, then ushered us into the main office. 

“This is Mr. Arthur Ammon”, he said introducing a fresh-faced young blond fellow with a pleasant expression. “Forgive the discourtesy gentlemen but the local police have just this minute called and said that they have detained Mr. Ivanovic trying to leave the area. I am summoned to the station at once!”

“I am sure that Mr. Ammon here can answer any questions that we may have”, Sherlock said smoothly. “Pray do not keep the emissaries of justice waiting, sir.”

The business owner rushed off. Mr. Ammon looked after him almost sadly.

“That man has been more of a father to me than my own blood”, he said pensively. “I hope that the police are right and that Sasha is behind the sabotage, even if he did not seem the sort. But then criminals never do, I suppose.”

“Neither the doctor nor I are conversant with the demolition process”, Sherlock said. “Could you explain it to us, please?”

The young man nodded and pulled a rolled-up plan out from a shelf, rolling it out onto the table and pinning it down with books.

“I suppose that it must seem odd to outsiders”, he said, “but before we do any demolition we have to do some building. We test the structure to detect any weak points and work out a demolition plan, then see what needs to be strengthened in case it falls down too early. Mr. Jones is very firm on not sending his men into any dangerous situations, something that my father does not care about I am sorry to say. The folly was in a terrible state and it had to have more structural beams than usual fitted before we even could start work.”

“So if these beams were removed during the demolition process”, Sherlock asked, “then that would cause a collapse like the one that happened?”

“Someone with the right knowledge – and much as I like him, I have to admit that that includes Sasha – could easily weaken or remove the connections where the beams meet the walls”, Mr. Ammon said. “A few key joists would be all it would take; we always explain things like this to the men so they know what they are doing, you see. In the ensuing wreckage there would be next to no chance of finding any evidence of such tampering. You saw the mess that just part of the building made.”

“Is this a blueprint?” I asked. The young man nodded.

“This is one of two sets of the demolition plans”, he said. “Mr. Jones keeps the other on him at all times. He thought something like this might happen although he believed that my father would be the one to try something.”

“Very security-conscious of him”, Sherlock said. “The doctor and I have certain other inquiries to pursue in the area today but we will return later. Will you still be here?”

“No”, he said. “I have classes from one to four at the local college today then I go home. I have a small flat above a shop in the High Street, number 32A.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“I am afraid that I must ask you for your father's address”, he said sounding apologetic at that. “I myself do not wish to believe that he is the man behind the folly's collapse but Mr. Jones is my client, and if I do not interview a potential suspect or at least attempt to interview them, he will think that I am not doing my job.”

“I understand”, Mr. Ammon said. “He lives at Number Eight, Little Common, Dulwich. It is a huge place, really its own little estate of twenty properties each of which backs onto a private green. I very much doubt that he will see you but I understand that you have to at least make the attempt.”

“Thank you”, Sherlock said. “One final question, because the doctor likes to know these things. What happened to Mr. Smith?”

The young man looked confused.

“The company name”, I prompted wondering how on earth Sherlock had known that I had been wondering just that. All that sex had not stopped the freakish mind-reading, worse luck!

“Oh I see”, he said. “Mr. Jones's wife was formerly Miss Edna Smith; her brother Edgar put a lot of money into the company one time. In return he asked for recognition in the name and a share of the profits. However he does not play any part in the running of the business at all; he has a big house out in Hertfordshire somewhere and we never see him.”

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We adjourned to the High Street and a frankly disappointing little restaurant, where the chocolate cake was so uninspiring that I had to finish Sherlock's for him. We then took a cab to Dulwich where as we had been warned by his son Mr. Ammon refused to see us, and even threatened to call the police if we did not leave. We therefore returned to the builder's yard where Sherlock asked the secretary, a grizzled elderly lady called Miss Dale (whom he charmed, of course) about the business.

“Mr. Jones works every hour that the Good Lord sends”, she said, sounding faintly disapproving of that fact. “This has been a terrible ordeal for him.”

“May I ask who has access to the blueprints in the office?” Sherlock inquired.

“Only Mr. Jones and Mr. Ammon”, she said firmly. “I do not allow the Men in here!”

I could hear the capital. 

“Miss Dale”, Sherlock smiled, “you are clearly a lady of intelligence. You will know that the police arrested Mr. Ivanovic this morning. I have never met him, so may I be permitted to know _your_ opinion of the gentleman?”

“Smarter than he looks”, she said sharply, “although that is not difficult. But not dishonest; he really wanted his job here and would not have done anything to endanger it. I do not know how those building supplies got to his house but I would wager a week's salary that he did not take them.”

“If he did not, then who did?” Sherlock asked. 

She looked at him thoughtfully. 

“If you are half as smart as those books make you out to be”, she said, “then you should already know.”

“I have a fair idea”, Sherlock smiled. “I saw in the local newspaper that the owner of the property adjoining the folly which was itself damaged is threatening to sue Mr. Jones.”

“Then time is of the essence”, she said. “A character stain once made rarely comes out.”

To my surprise Sherlock laughed.

“I agree”, he said. “Maybe it is time for an application of bleach.”

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Mr. Jones returned shortly after three o' clock that afternoon.

“The police are holding him but he denies it all”, he grumbled. “Damnation!”

“Innocent men usually do tend to deny false accusations made against them”, Sherlock said dryly. 

The builder looked at him in surprise.

“He is innocent?” he asked.

“You owe that gentleman an apology”, Sherlock said firmly. “Even if he was framed.”

“Framed? How?”

“Sir, I need you to think hard”, Sherlock urged. “Your efficient secretary Miss Dale tells us that you never let your copy of the plans for the demolition of the folly out of your sight. Is that correct?”

“Yes, of course.” 

Sherlock looked hard at him.

 _“Really?”_ he asked. Mr. Jones looked at us in confusion. 

“I always keep the originals on me in case that rat Ammon somehow managed to get one of my men to alter the plans”, he said. “At all times. I never.....”

His face suddenly went very pale. 

“Oh no!”

“You have remembered the time when you were momentarily separated from the plans”, Sherlock said.

The builder nodded.

“Do you remember who it was who ran after you and gave them to you?”

Another nod.

“Can it be proven?” he muttered. “You have seen the wreckage.”

“I believe that it can”, Sherlock said with a smile. “But we shall have to be a little unethical in obtaining it. Though it would not be the first time.”

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We called in briefly at Mr. Arthur Ammon's flat in the High Street but although it was five o' clock he was not back from college yet. Sherlock asked the landlady one or two questions and seemed pleased with her answers. I was less pleased with the fact that she openly simpered at him and his smirk that said quite plainly that he knew that I was jea..... irked at the delay. I did not pout all the way back to London, whatever anyone said, and he rewarded my patience by buying me a slice of Branksome's delicious Death By Chocolate over which I did not coo with pleasure.

Well, not much.

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I was a little hurt when, the following morning, Sherlock asked if he could have our rooms to meet someone in private. Clearly I was still useless at hiding my feelings at times like this, and when I returned later he confronted me.

“You are upset.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I know that you always do things for a reason”, I said trying to sound disinterested.

He did not immediately answer but lifted something from next to him by the chair. At first I thought it was a framed picture but on closer inspection I recognized that it was a blueprint.

“The demolition plans?” I asked. “But why are they framed? And how do you have them?”

He smiled. 

“I shall answer one of those questions”, he said. “I knew who had them but I am averse to breaking and entering myself when I can avoid it. Besides, I know full well that you would have insisted on accompanying me and I am more risk-averse that normal just now, especially when it comes to the man I love more than life itself. So I employed a specialist.”

“A specialist?” I asked, not blushing at his words at all. It was hot in the room, I thought.

“A certain Mr. Tobias Brunswick, one of the best thieves in London”, he said, smiling for some reason or other. “Some time ago he was accused of committing a notable theft for which he was in that instance not responsible, and I succeeded in proving that he had been as they say 'fitted up'. I am sorry that I had to evict you this morning but he is one of my few 'acquaintances' who is by his nature reluctant to deal with anyone but myself. A rarity these days; many of those who once once would have shunned your presence would now accept it, I might add.”

“I do not remember the case”, I said, only slightly mollified by his words.

“It was a small matter that arose during your time in Egypt, during a brief return to London”, he said, looking at me beseechingly. Which was completely unfair; how could I stay mad when he looked like that? I sighed heavily.

“I forgive you”, I said. “Provided you tell me everything about this case.”

“We are going down to Norwood to meet with Mr. Jones shortly”, he said. “But before.... I sent out to Branksome's for some of their Triple Chocolate Fudge Dreams.”

“I am not so easily bought off”, I said pointedly.

He just looked at me.

“The ones with the cream and nut topping?” I asked, graciously condescending to ignore someone's mile-wide smirk.

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A short time (and three utterly delicious Fudge Dreams _with cream and nut toppings!)_ later, there were six of us in the main office of Smith and Jones; Sherlock and myself, Mr. Jones, Mr. Arthur Ammon, Mr. Sasha Ivanovic and a policeman from the local station, Constable Edwin Clarion (as with most policemen these days, he looked depressingly young, I thought). Mr. Ivanovic, a short, dark blond fellow not much more than twenty years of age with a notable scar on his chin, was visibly trembling.

“Mr. Jones”, Sherlock said. “Yesterday we had a discussion which, I suspect, showed that there was one person in this room who was doing their level best to destroy your business.”

“I am innocent!” Mr. Ivanovic declared roundly.

“I know”, Sherlock said blithely. 

The Russian looked up in shock at that.

“But you are accusing me of destroying that building!” he insisted.

 _“I_ do not recall accusing you of doing anything”, Sherlock said airily. He turned to the policeman. “You have a set of handcuffs on you, constable?”

“Yes, sir”, the policeman said.

“Then please do me the courtesy of placing them on..... this man.”

As he was speaking he walked around the table, and placed a heavy hand on young Mr. Ammon's shoulder. The man jumped but laughed.

“Really Mr. Holmes!” he said. “Why would I try to destroy the man who gave me a job when my father threw me out?”

“The game is up”, Sherlock said with a smile. “But since you insist on denying it, I will tell 'the man who gave you a job when your father threw you out' just how you betrayed him, and why.”

Mr. Ammon smiled, but it looked slightly forced.

“You and your father decided some time ago to destroy your main business rival”, Sherlock said. “His getting a contract that you had wanted was the last straw. Your faked an argument with you after which you moved out to a small flat over a shop in the High Street. But the landlady there says that you are hardly ever in residence, and I would wager that when the police check the comings and goings at the house of the father who has allegedly disowned you, they will find that you feature somewhat prominently. Especially when his lawyer will be compelled to admit under oath that his client did not disinherit you in favour of your younger brother, as he claimed to have done.”

The young man had gone pale. Sherlock continued.

“Attending college requires much more money than you earn from your part-time post here”, he said. “Your first act was particularly vile. In order to create a suspect for what you were planning you stole some supplies from the yard and planted them in Mr. Ivanovic's house, knowing that he would be sacked for stealing. A foreigner makes a tempting target and I am sorry to say, Mr. Jones, that you allowed your xenophobia to mislead you there.”

The businessman blushed. Sherlock turned back to Mr. Ammon.

“You next created two alternative sets of blueprints for the demolition task”, Sherlock went on. “Exchanging the office ones would be easy and you had the opportunity to exchange the others when Mr. Jones rushed out of the office one day leaving them behind. You being the dutiful employee hurried after him – but the plans you gave him were the altered ones designed by you so that the building would collapse preferably while your employer's men were working on it. It was only through Divine Providence that a strong gale came through the area before your evil machinations could come to fruition.”

“You have no proof!” Mr, Ammon almost snarled. “This is just words.”

Sherlock smiled unpleasantly and walked over to the door.

“Miss Dale?” he called out.

Clearly the secretary handed him the framed blueprint because he came back with it. Mr. Ammon's eyes bulged.

“Criminals such as your sort like to have 'trophies' of your achievements”, Sherlock said sharply. “I know your sort all too well. You both worked on this copy, and I rather think that both you and your father may find it rather difficult to explain exactly how his _and_ your fingerprints are on a blueprint that belonged to his rival. Also, precisely how that plan then ended up framed and hanging in your father's study in Dulwich.”

Mr. Ammon sprang up and lunged at Sherlock who stepped nimbly back. I did not hesitate but leaped forward and punched the guilty man squarely on the jaw, eliciting a satisfying crunch before he slumped to the floor, groaning. The constable had the cuffs on him in seconds and hauled him from the room.

“Thank you Mr. Holmes”, Mr. Jones smiled. “I cannot tell you what a relief this is. You have rid me of a blight that I did not even know I had and cleared my name. I assume that you will be sending me your bill?”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully.

“No, sir”, he said.

The business owner looked surprised.

“No?” The businessman was clearly astonished.

“This has been just the case I needed after some more difficult ones of late”, Sherlock said. “I will not be levying any direct charges. _However....”_

He wagged a finger at Mr. Jones.

“You owe Mr. Ivanovic here an apology”, he said reprovingly. “His job back if he chooses to accept it, and back-pay from the date that he was unfairly sacked through to when he resumes his post here or finds other employment. Those shall be my charges for this case, and I trust you as a gentleman to fulfil them. Good day, sir.”

He strolled from the building and I scurried after him.

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I had read somewhere that given the right circumstances, it was possible for a man wearing a solid cock-ring to break through its restrictive grip. And with Sherlock having taken me for the fourth time in a row, if that was ever going to happen it might well be now.

My birthday surprise for Sherlock's forty-first was a night away at a rather unique and accommodating bed and breakfast place that I had read about in Kingswood, Surrey. I had secretly packed us both some clothes in my doctor's bag which always went with us, and the look of gratitude on his face when he realized my plans on West Norwood Platform One had been almost too much. Though not as much as now.

Sherlock had long had a preference to take me what was called 'doggy-style', with me on my hands and knees on the bed while he repeatedly impaled me from behind. Of course this being his birthday I had brought our small but growing collection of sex toys with me – thank Heavens we did not live in one of those countries where the police inspected a gentleman's private bags or I would have had some serious explaining to do! - and told him that as a treat he could do whatever he liked with me (yes I know this was a normal state of affairs and shut up!). He had taken that literally, slipping on a cock-ring at once and then inserting the vibrator. I had no senses left to speak of but I was just a lump of pure blissed-out happiness.

The vibrator was removed and quickly replaced with pure Sherlock and I groaned as he went straight for my prostate. I was sure that I could hear the metal of the cock-ring groaning as I strained at it but it still held, denying me release. Sherlock, the bastard, had said that he would remove it before we left, but I was not allowed to come until we were back in Baker Street. The thought of a long and often bumpy train-ride while trying not to explode only added fuel to the fire and I groaned somewhere between pain and ecstasy.

Sherlock finally came again inside me – it was frankly amazing the amount of times that he could manage that – and this time just slumped on top of me, pushing me down onto the bed and rubbing my over-sensitive cock with his hand against the sheets. I sighed again, happy beyond my wildest imaginings.

“Why here?” he whispered in my ear. Why he was whispering I had no idea; it was a blessing both that there were no other guests and that the owners were known for their discretion.

“Breakfast!” I managed to gasp out. Conversation might have been easier had he not been nibbling away at my ear, which he knew was one of my primary erogenous zones. He let go of my cock to tweak my nipples, and I grunted happily.

“What about breakfast?” he asked. “I am building up quite an appetite after all this.”

“Good”, I managed having just enough energy to turn my head and avoid speaking straight into the pillow. “Because they not only do some of the best bacon in Surrey, but they also do all you can eat.”

He had been busy sucking another love-bite into my neck but stopped and instead kissed over it.

“I love you so much”, he whispered. “You are mine, John, whatever people say. All mine!”

And incredibly he started to become hard again and began to pound into me anew. Honestly the things I put up with for that man!

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I slept nearly all the way home. I had to sit down on a damnably hard bench on Platform Six of Victoria Station for some time before I could complete the great trek out to the cab ranks. Why did our great Victorian inventors not work a bit harder on the more important things in life, like better suspension in cabs and comfortable if not heated station benches?

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_Notes:_   
_† Rugby League. A split had developed over payments to players, with the sports authorities insisting that the game remain amateur. This was one thing in southern England where players tended to have well-paid main jobs but another in the north where they were usually working-class and needed the money that the game might bring in. Changes soon followed; the line-out was abolished in 1897, professionalism introduced in 1898 and the number of men on each side reduced from fifteen to thirteen in 1906._

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	6. Case 218: The Theft Of The Bruce-Partington Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. The distant South China Seas are the origin of a strange case of treason and betrayal for Sherlock, who also has yet another ‘challenging’ familial encounter.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

After our run of animal cases it was another of those idiosyncrasies of Sherlock's 'job' that two cases involving plans happened not only in the same year but were also documented consecutively in my casebook files. Though this second case had potentially rather more serious implications that the ruination of a construction business.

In explaining the events surrounding this case I must first make the 1930s reader conversant with the circumstances that four decades back linked my friend to a remote set of islands in the South China Sea. In the early years of the nineteenth century it had not been unknown for adventurers rich enough to afford their own mercenaries (the equivalent of the medieval baronial army) to go off and conquer some part of the world which they then ruled as their particular fiefdom. It was Imperial policy to tolerate these eccentrics as long as they toed a pro-British line, providing naval cover in return for not having to conquer and maintain the territories from distant London. The official phraseology for such entities was Benign Anglophile Territories or B.A.T.s, which term was, coincidentally, also used for some of the people who founded and ran them!

Not long after the famous Mr. Stamford Raffles founded the great port of Singapore another such adventurer, Mr. Amadeus Bruce-Partington, established his own little corner of England on the Stour Islands some way south-west of the island of Formosa†. These islands were an archipelago that consisted mostly of the capital Bruceville on the largest island Partington (modesty was not it seems a problem for this gentleman, rather like someone else who I could mention but will not because I actually like being able to sit down!). The islands had been sufficiently far removed from anywhere of interest for Mr. Bruce-Partington to remain unmolested back then and he had lived out his life in peace. By the time that he had died however, the local situation was changing.

The year prior to this case had seen the outbreak of war between China and Japan, which had since resulted in a complete victory for the latter and established it as the dominant power in the region. The strategically important Korean Peninsula (which stretched out to the Japanese Home Islands) was thereafter pretty much a Japanese vassal. However mighty Russia, eager for its own warm-water port on the Pacific and annoyed at the emergence of a rival, persuaded France and Germany to force Japan to return Port Arthur‡ and the Liaodong Peninsula to the Chinese only for the Russians to then bully Peking into ceding both to them, which naturally went down badly in Kyoto. This would lead among other things to the 1902 Anglo-Japanese alliance that would ultimately bring the Land of the Rising Sun into the ensuing Great War.

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Sherlock was a creature of habit in many ways so when he went to the gymnasium in the morning instead of his usual afternoon one day, I wondered at it. He was also gone for more than an hour longer than usual and while I assumed this meant that he was having lunch there as he occasionally did when out, it seemed a long time without him. Perhaps he had met his cousin Mr. Garrick who still from time to time boasted about what he called his 'sexploits' with the leering Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles; I knew not why as this was invariably followed by Sherlock arranging for the latter to receive copious amounts of extra 'supplies' from a certain Baker Street shop which would render the government official unable to do much for some considerable time.

My answer came – literally – on my friend's return to Baker Street. I saw his cab pull up and raised an eyebrow as I heard him come in and race up the stairs. I wondered what the emergency was but before I could react he was through the door.

“John!” he panted. “Need you! Now!”

Sex in the middle of the day was unusual but I would do anything for my friend. Though I had not realized just how eager he was; he was undressed and on me before I was half done, almost ripping my clothes off and dragging me to my room. He all but threw me into the bed and before I could say anything he was on me still smelling of the sweat he had built up.....

I may have been no detective but I could still put two and two together, and sometimes even arrive at an integer midway between 3½ and 4½. As my friend tried to wrap himself around me, I knew. He was scenting me which had to mean that we were expecting the sort of company that would know full well what we had been up to. Which meant Sherlock's family. I suppose that I should have been annoyed at the presumption and using me like some sort of rag but I knew how insecure he could get at times like this and I knew he was still not fully back to normal after some of our recent darker cases, so I just lay back and let him have his way with me.

When I had been thoroughly doused in Sherlock's scent he seemed to finally calm down and relax against me his hand gently rubbing our cocks against each other. This was good, the sort of halfway house towards orgasm where we could both gather our breaths before the final ascent (we were not teenagers any more, either of us!). He finally looked me in the eyes and seemed almost apologetic about what he had done. I gently ran my hands up and down his arms and kissed him on the lips.

“I understand”, I said quietly. 

“I should not have done that”, he said seeming almost angry with himself. “I had no right.....”

“You are my true love, and you had every right”, I cut in. “Besides, I did not exactly try to stop you, did I? Tell me, which Holmes family member shall we shortly have the 'pleasure' of seeing?”

He blushed adorably.

“Father”, he muttered.

“Then you had better take me before he arrives”, I grinned. “We want to make a thorough job of it, do we not?”

He looked at me with such gratitude that it nearly broke my heart. Though within two minutes I had lost the ability to register any further thoughts as he eased himself inside me and pushed rapidly towards orgasm. I waited until he was most of the way there, then hissed “pull out!” to him. He looked at me in surprise but did so, looking almost disappointed.

“On me!” I told him. He looked at me in surprise, but he quickly finished himself off, coming all over my chest. I immediately began to rub it in, drowning in his beautiful scent while he looked at me as if I were some kind of god.

“Let us hope that he is on time!” I grinned, kissing my lover deeply before getting stiffly off the bed and reaching for my dressing-gown.

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Like any great nobleman Sir Edward Holmes took his son's mate's utterly wrecked appearance in his stride although I noticed that he did sniff the air. Sherlock had scented me so thoroughly that with the windows open, people walking in the Park could have smelled it!

The nobleman placed two slim brown files on the desk before speaking.

“I am to assume that you know about Mycroft and Torver, and their efforts to get you disinherited?”

Sherlock nodded. We were sat around the table, the two of us notably close together. Thank Heavens that Sherlock wasn't doing anything under the table, at least this time!

I caught the slight smile that creased his lips and remembered, too late as usual, his uncanny mind-reading abilities. I sent up a silent prayer to God for... well, just in case.

“That is their right”, Sherlock said moving even closer to me and eliciting from me what was definitely a manly shudder. “I presume that in their filial way they are waiting for you to pass on, then hoping that they can somehow get rid of Carl before turning their fire on me.”

“Most probably”, the baronet admitted as if his sons trying to do each other over or just waiting for him to shuffle off this mortal coil was the natural order of things (it likely was in this instance). “I have been to see Lucifer and Mr. Jackson-Giles, and I thought that it was time that I saw you. And your partner.”

I jumped at the appellation. There was the very slightest of flickers at the corner of Sherlock's lips. 

“You are welcome here”, he said. “As are Mother, Carl, Luke and Anna.”

I had my doubts about that first one, especially as Sherlock had come back from a recent Reading of his fearsome mother muttering about some story she was making concerning horny leather goods makers who had created a whole range of 'unusual' products - 'Rawhide', that had been it. Of course I immediately got a disapproving look from the resident mind-reader in the vicinity.

The baronet gestured to the files he had brought.

“There is certain useful information about the activities of both Mycroft and Torver in those”, he said. “Should they move against either of you, you are free to use it with my blessing. It will most certainly ruin them but it would be of their own doing. Torver is possibly the greater danger; he is still sulking after being so publicly slapped down in front of our noble Queen although at least it has stopped him identifying as a grand duke. My good lady wife delivers a mean uppercut, and is not shy about where she aims with her stick!”

I smiled at that.

“Thank you”, Sherlock said taking the files. 

His father looked around the room curiously. It was in its usual state, half a storm-tossed mess and half in good order. I was sure that he could easily work out which half was his son’s and damnation if I was not getting a Disapproving Look!

“Have you never thought of a house of your own, son?” he asked.

I had privately wondered that too and had silently prayed for Sherlock to never even consider it. I had come to love 221B and would never wish to leave it. At least not until I – we – retired.

“John and I are happy here”, Sherlock said, taking my hand. “I see no reason to change what works.”

“Indeed”, Sir Edward Holmes said, standing up and I knew that he had taken the unspoken inference behind his son's words. “Then I shall wish you both good day.” He gave me a pointed look. “Take good care of my son, doctor.”

With that he was gone. I silently vowed that whatever my feelings towards his family, I would always take good care of Sherlock.

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It was perhaps typical that, just a couple of hours (and two celebratory orgasms) later, our friend Inspector LeStrade called round to request our help in a case. He raised an eyebrow at the still pungent scent in the room and I thought I saw the slightest of smiles creasing his lips. Mercifully he refrained from commenting on it, moving straight to the business that had brought him here.

Coffee-cake since you ask, and Gregson would 'just happen to drop by' half an hour after he had left. So someone could stop rolling their eyes at me like that when I was so right!

“It's damn rare for me to have a case these days”, LeStrade grumbled. “The Met seems to think that if we fill out enough forms then crime will just grind to a halt. I swear, if the criminals had to put up with half the paperwork we do, they'd not have time for most of their shenanigans!”

I smiled at his indignation. Sherlock's next remark however caught me off guard.

“How is Randall?”

The tall policeman stared at him in astonishment.

“Freaky mind-reading consulting detective!” he groused (I could empathize!). “How did you know?”

Sherlock smiled knowingly and gestured to the folder that our visitor was carrying.

“Government documents have a distinct and unpleasant vomit-brown colour”, he said, “although that is perhaps appropriate given the way that they are wont to behave at times. After his last visit here my brother was left with the quite correct impression that he was no longer welcome at this address until he improved either his manners or his attitude - _unless he wished to become target practice!”_

He spoke sharply. The inspector raised an eyebrow but did not ask.

“Yes, he asked me to see you”, LeStrade admitted. “It's about the whole Bruce-Partington fiasco.”

There was a pointed silence.

“It's not yet reached the newspapers?” the inspector said, clearly surprised. “Your brother was sure that it would be in at least the lunch-time editions but I didn't have time to get one.”

“Evidently 'it' has not”, Sherlock said. “Pray tell us exactly what 'it' is.

LeStrade took a bite of his cake – crumbs everywhere; the fellow was almost as big a grub as Sherlock – and began.

“The Stour Islands are one of those little corners of the British Empire that are not actually in the Empire”, he said, looking at his file. “Seventeen of them only three of which – Partington, Cherington and Stourton – are inhabited. Until now it's basically been a private fiefdom for the Bruce-Partington family, but with the death of Mr. Amadeus Bruce-Partington his son Levi, who lives in England, is looking at selling them to the government.”

“Those place names sounds familiar”, I said, frowning.

“The Stour Valley is near where we solved the King Stone case for young Alexander Macdonald”, Sherlock told me. “We visited Cherington which was just north of Long Compton as part of our inquiries. We also passed through the town of Shipston, which I know is the name of Lord Bruce-Partington's London house. Why would his son wish to sell the islands now, LeStrade?”

“Two reasons”, the policeman said. “First because he does not wish his own son Richard to inherit; I understand there is some bad blood there caused by the boy marrying against his father's wishes and then openly telling his father that he should sign over the islands to him at once because he was 'too old'. The young these days! Second, because the British government is weighing up having another naval base in the South China Seas, 'specially given the instability in eastern Asia.”

“So what exactly is the problem?” Sherlock asked.

“Three of the islands lie some distance from the rest and not that far from the big island of Formosa which the Chinese recently lost to Japan”, the inspector said. “Stourton and two of the uninhabited islands, Great and Little Wolford. Brucetown, the capital of Stourton has a natural harbour which is just about large enough for a naval base and the Japanese have been sniffing around it as of late. Your brother says that while the British government is looking to keep friendly relations with the Japs as regards our interests in the Pacific, they won't yield a single one of those pebbles. They are however prepared to give ground in other areas of disagreement, which was why on Monday Mr. Levi Bruce-Partington had some government bods over to his London pad, as you said Shipston House, in order to discuss a possible sale. We posted officers around the house but somehow the handover plans were still stolen.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together and thought for a moment.

“Two things come to mind”, he said. “First, it is now Thursday yet Randall has only now asked you to come to seek my aid. Why the delay?”

“Your brother – and the doctor here is right in those books of his; never a face that so deserved to be slapped – was certain that the plans were stolen so they could be sold to either the Japanese or Chinese governments who would then use them to some end or other”, LeStrade said. “But neither government has made contact. He hopes that the delay means the plans might still be recovered.”

“Curious”, Sherlock said. “There can be no gain in delaying matters; quite the reverse if anything. Who were the 'government bods' attending?”

LeStrade looked at his file.

“Lord Harvey Rockbourne from the Foreign Office and his secretary Mr. Tybalt Danvers. And Mr. Quintus Pulborough also from the Foreign Office; he's a specialist in Far Eastern what-not.”

“Presumably a man with connections”, Sherlock said. “Intriguing. Why were they assigned police officers?”

“The layout at the house is a bit odd”, LeStrade said. “The road itself is quiet but there is a public footpath along the edge of the grounds and only a wooden fence to keep people out. I had three men posted on eight-hour shifts there to guard the study where the plans were kept; Wells, Bull and Marks.”

“They do not seem to have done a very good job”, I observed.

“It was all Marks's fault”, LeStrade said morosely. “He _claimed_ that the housemaid, one Maggie York had been 'making eyes' at him. She denied it of course! He was talking to her at his post inside the house and she said how cold it was and that the wind seemed to be coming under the study door. He opened the door and sure enough someone had broken in through the window, broken into the safe and taken the treaty!”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Did no-one hear the glass breaking?” he asked.

“It was a professional job all right”, LeStrade said. “They coated the glass with some glue stuff then pushed it in. It stayed pretty much in one piece so no noise; it was one of those doors with two big panels. If the maid hadn't have felt so chilly it might well not have been spotted until the following morning.”

“The plans were taken, though”, I pointed out. LeStrade nodded.

“Footprints were found leading to and from the public footpath”, the inspector said. “But I know it was an inside job.”

“How?” I asked. He grinned at me.

“I learned some things from all those books you write, doctor”, he said. “I took a close look at those prints. Nothing unusual at first; large boots, one track going from the wall and one leading to it. Except at one point.” He paused. “Just by the wall the tracks overlapped.”

“So?” I asked.

“The tracks _in_ went over the tracks _out_ ”, he said. “So someone walked from the house to the path to create a false set of tracks then back to the house again to create the illusion of a burglar. But they were careless.”

“You were indeed observant”, Sherlock praised. “Now, apart from Mr. Levi and his three guests who else was in the house at the time?”

“No-one but the servants”, he said, “and they are all accounted for. There are eight of them but the butler was celebrating his fiftieth birthday, so Mr. Levi gave them all the evening off once dinner was out of the way. They're all each other's alibis. Except the maid who took up coffees, and unless she's a world-class athlete in disguise there's no way she had the time as the rest of them all said she was gone for barely five minutes. Not and got outside, broke in, then got out and come back in again. Besides it was chucking it down that night so she'd have been wet through.”

“So we are down to the gentlemen”, Sherlock said. “Let us consider the house owner first as it is his property. Does he benefit in any way from the theft?”

“Far from it”, LeStrade said firmly. “The government may back away from the sale if there's a leak, then he would get nothing. Plus he's a real patriot so he would never sell to the Japs. He might leave the islands to his younger son though.”

I thought privately to myself as since the original Mr. Bruce-Partington had taken the islands from their native inhabitants his family getting nothing was pretty fair. But I remained silent. Although I really wished that Sherlock would not look at me as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. He probably did, but....

“Lord Rockbourne?” the freakishly annoying mind-reading consulting detective asked, smirking for no good reason.

“Far too sure of himself”, LeStrade said disdainfully. “It may be that upheaval in that part of the world would mean more work for him but his sort are in demand everywhere as it is. I don't like that runt of a secretary of his though, Mr. Danvers. I distrust anyone with a name like Tybalt, and he's a bit _too_ polished for my liking. Plus from what little we know of him he seems to like spending money a whole lot. I can see him taking the Japs' penny.”

“But the plans have not yet been sold”, Sherlock said. “What about Mr. Pulborough?” 

“He may have some motive”, LeStrade said. “He retired from the government last year but his expertise in the area led to his being called back. I hear he's being paid handsomely for his extra service, all out of our taxes of course. I made some inquiries and it seems that he may be in some financial bother; he incurred a heap of legal expenses over a disputed inheritance that he lost out on in the end. Besides, Quintus is almost as bas as Tybalt when it comes to freakish first names!”

Sherlock nodded then looked hard at the detective. I was surprised; he only used that look on people who were not being straight with him.

 _“Gawain”_ , he said slowly, _“what are you not telling us?”_

It was on reflection one of the rare times that Sherlock used the inspector's Christian name. The man scowled deeply.

“Bloody hell I really am going to start using you to get confessions out of fellows at the station!” he groused. “All right. The theft happened just after the changeover between Wells and Marks. I... I have concerns over young Wells. There was some money from a case a few months back that went missing while he was in charge of the evidence room. I almost missed it but when I caught on, it immediately turned up elsewhere in the station. I also know the man is hard-up with a young family and all.”

Sherlock sighed.

“The perils of power”, he said. “It corrupts many who touch it, even police officers. Tell me, when the three men went to the house I assume that they did not plan to stay the night otherwise you would have included their valets in your list of servants?”

“They didn't”, LeStrade said, “but they've since joined them. Your brother says that the government is kicking up a fuss and wants the whole thing sorted pronto, one way or another. And of course all three want to leave.”

“Governments want a lot of things”, Sherlock said. “Rather like children in a sweet-shop. Whether they should be given what they want is another matter entirely. But as it is still early I dare say that the doctor and I can make time for a trip to the house. It is not far from here, I believe?”

“Notting Hill”, the inspector said. “We could take a cab now if you are ready.”

“For the British Empire?” Sherlock smiled. “Always!”

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I would not like to have called Shipston House a Gothic monstrosity. _It was far, far worse!_ It looked like someone had drawn up a list of the twenty most horrible things they could have done to a building and then condensed them into this one..... nightmare. The only redeeming factor was the screen of trees which doubtless spared the neighbours from having to see what had landed in their midst. If intelligent alien life saw this when they came to Earth, they would surely decide that Mankind was beyond hope and blast the planet to smithereens!

I had taken the opportunity afforded by the cab-ride to look at the statements of the three men (all right, it also distracted me from any lingering soreness!) and I noted that each had left the room at some point during the evening. The two government ministers had gone to use the water-closet and Mr. Danvers had gone outside 'for some fresh air'. Hmm.

My suspicions of the secretary fellow only increased when I finally met him. He was basically a shorter (if almost as pungent) version of Mr. Randall Holmes, oozing a self-confidence that I hoped was unjustified. Lord Rockbourne was an amiable gentleman who looked a little older than his years and Mr. Pulborough a slim, silver-haired elderly gentleman who looked bemused at the turn that events had taken. 

Our host Mr. Bruce-Partington was about fifty years of age, fair-haired and bespectacled. I expected Sherlock to want to interview the suspects at once but he said that he wished to examine outside first as it was already early afternoon and the light could not be expected to last for much longer. I followed him out, noting that neither our host nor the three 'imprisoned' guests seemed overly impressed. At least one of them soon would be!

“Let us consider the timeline”, Sherlock said as we stood outside the window of the room whence the plans had been stolen. “Dinner concludes at seven-thirty and the men adjourn to the study in order to look over the plans. All four men are in the room so there is no chance of anyone trying anything. Mr. Bruce-Partington places the documents in his brief-case, locks it in the safe then leaves the room and locks the door behind him. Constable Wells is on duty outside the house.”

“It must have been dark outside”, I said. Sherlock nodded

“The weather last Monday was as we know stormy”, he said, “and it was a New Moon so even a break in the clouds would have afforded little in the way of light. The break-in must have occurred some time between eight and ten, with the later hours perhaps more likely.”

“Why?” I asked.

“We were told that the maid could detect the wind coming through the broken window”, he said. “The constable on duty inside the house would therefore have detected it as well.”

“Unless he was in on it”, I pointed out.

“Hmm”, was his only response.

He walked carefully across the lawn to the fence by the footpath. I followed him easily enough; it looked set to be another clear night and the moon was slender but bright. Sherlock sighed as he examined the area by the fence.

“It is well for LeStrade that he closed this area off”, Sherlock said looking at the police markers. “Possibly there may be another clue here.”

If there was either he did not find it or did not share it with me. We returned to the house where Sherlock intercepted one of the footmen.

“Tell me”, he asked, “at what times did it rain on the day of the theft?”

The man looked horrified, clearly suspecting some inner meaning to the question. When Sherlock continued to stare at him however he seemed to relax a little.

“Most of that afternoon, sir”, he said. “It became really heavy at around seven and kept on until we all turned in.”

Sherlock thanked him and walked on. I scuttled after him wondering at his sudden interest in the local weather.

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Once we were back with the four gentlemen, Sherlock turned to our host.

“Mr. Bruce-Partington”, he said gravely. “I believe that I am close to resolving this case although I must crave a further day's indulgence from you and your guests.”

“You know who stole the plans?” the man asked eagerly.

“No”, Sherlock said, “but I know a way to find out.”

“How?”

“Your rug.”

Mr. Bruce-Partington raised his eyebrows and I only narrowly suppressed a smile when his hand moved instinctively towards what was most obviously a hair-piece. Either that or the aliens were already here and using a very poor disguise!

“Pardon?” he said clearly alarmed.

“More precisely, the quality Turkish rug by the window in your study”, Sherlock said and I knew from the twinkle in his eyes that he had phrased his statement quite deliberately, the teasing bastard! “I have seen one like it on a case before. Although they are all but invisible to the human eye, one reason that it maintains its lustre is that minuscule pieces of gold thread are embedded into it. I also know that it rained for some time before the theft took place. No matter how careful he was, the thief will likely still have a number of those thread ends stuck to his boots. I have a chemical solution which reacts with the thread when applied, and I will return home tonight and bring it with me on the morrow. Naturally I will request all of you to surrender your boots as of now.”

“This is most inconvenient”, Mr, Danvers grumbled.

“If it clears us all then none of us can have any objection”, Lord Rockbourne said. “I assume that you will be returning _early_ tomorrow, sir?”

“As soon as I can”, Sherlock promised.

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The next day the three of us returned to Shipston House as promised. LeStrade had arranged for all three constables to be in attendance, presumably in case the guilty party made a run for it. I noted also that the inspector seemed ill-at-ease for some reason. Sherlock had taken longer than usual to pick him up from his station that morning and I wondered why.

The living-room at the house was a decent size, although it still felt crowded with ten of us there. Mr. Bruce-Partington had instructed his staff to pull out the extending-table however and we all just fitted around it. Sherlock placed a large bag on the top and paused.

“This case has been all about money”, he began. “It was perpetrated because the criminal believed that he could obtain a large sum by selling a British government document to a foreign power. I would like to take this opportunity to remind you all that, even though the documents were not at the time government property, legal counsel that I took last night informed me that it would still be regarded as treason since the theft was an act in itself which would harm this Nation, and that that the penalty for that offence is as we all know death by hanging.”

If the atmosphere was not tense enough already, those words made it ten times worse. Sherlock opened the bag and extracted a large pair of boots.

“These are size ten”, he said. “They are also the boots worn by the criminal when he perpetrated the crime.”

“I am a size eight”, Mr. Danvers put in. Sherlock stared at him for a moment then turned to LeStrade 

“You learned some things from the doctor's overdramatic accounts of my cases”, he said (I scowled at him for that uncalled for remark), “and you did well to spot the fact that the footprints coming from the house overlaid the ones going to it. But much as it pains me to say it, there were two things that you missed.”

He paused, then looked at the now visibly alarmed Constable Wells.

“When he brought me in on this case your inspector admitted, reluctantly I might add, that he had certain concerns over _you_ , young sir”, he said, his voice strangely calm. “He was also worried because he knew, and only told me later when I challenged him over that fact, that of the seven men involved – Mr. Bruce-Partington, his three visitors and the three duty constables – you were the only person with size ten feet.”

He paused again.

“These boots, which match the footprints by the wall, were found in your locker last night. On the sole there is a faint piece of gold thread!”

“Aha!” Mr. Danvers exclaimed. “Got you!”

Sherlock turned and eyed him sharply. The fellow took a step back.

“Seeing may be believing, but not always”, he said. “So to the two things that showed me the real guilty party in this matter. First the irregularity of the footprints where the pressure applied to each step varied as if the person walking was doing so unsteadily. Either the person making the steps was drunk – and that was ruled out as they were in a straight line as well as evenly spaced – _or it was someone with smaller feet wearing larger boots.”_

“The latter was clearly indicated, but that immediately threw a new light on the crime. Someone had not only stolen the plans but had deliberately tried to incriminate Constable Wells here. Someone who had access to the constable's police locker and could place the incriminating boots inside it. Someone who was here when I mentioned the gold thread – which, by the way, I made up.”

Constable Marks made a sudden rush for the door but his fellow constables quickly restrained him, and with the help of the other men soon had him handcuffed. He glowered at us from the chair.

“Your execution of this plan was almost flawless”, Sherlock said coldly. “Indeed one of the few things to betray you was the unreliable English weather.”

“The weather?” I asked. He nodded.

“When he went off-duty at six o' clock that morning, Constable Marks took the chance to lay the footprints to and from the wall for use that night”, Sherlock said. “You were correct, LeStrade, when you noted that an inbound footprint overlaid an outbound one, except that that was entirely what the villain here _meant_ for you to see. It drew suspicion away from an outsider and pointed it squarely at the people in the house, specifically at one of the policemen with questions about his past. Questions that could be used against him now.”

“But the inclement weather lets our criminal down. That afternoon it begins to rain and in the evening it intensifies. The subsequent damp weather prevents the water from subsequently evaporating from the footprints. Yet if they had been made during the theft as we were supposed to believe, there would have been a small but detectable splatter by each footprint. There was none, so the prints had clearly been made _before_ the rain had started. But not that long before, else there was the risk that they might be detected.”

The prisoner growled at him. Sherlock continued.

“You arrived at the house some time before your duty began at ten o' clock. It was dark outside and overcast, perfect for your foul scheme. Your knowledge of criminals enabled you to break through the glass window silently enough without Constable Wells, who was still on duty, hearing you. It also enabled you to open the safe. You took the plans and hid them, then went to relieve your colleague hoping as it was late that the theft would not be discovered until the following morning by which time you would have gone off duty and have headed straight for either the Chinese or Japanese Embassies. Indeed the house had largely gone to bed, but unfortunately for you a maid felt the cold air coming through under the door and you had to 'go and investigate'. I would suggest, Mr. Bruce-Partington, that that young lady deserves some recompense for her actions, as she has helped save this Nation from a significant embarrassment.”

“The plans, Mr. Holmes!” Mr. Bruce-Partington said urgently. “The plans!”

“You won't find them!” Constable Marks sneered. “They're long gone.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly. 

“I think not”, he said. “Doctor, I believe the time is approximately five minutes after ten?”

I looked at him, puzzled by the apparent _non sequitur._

“Yes?” I said uncertainly.

He strolled over to a large grandfather clock in the corner of the room and only then did I notice that it was not working. He opened the panel door and reached in and extracted a rolled-up piece of paper which he handed to Mr. Bruce-Partington. The man checked it then grasped it to his chest as if his life depended on it.

“After our villain here was forced to 'discover' the break-in, he realized that to have the plans on his person could be to invite disaster”, Sherlock said. “He himself would have to be searched as a matter of course, so he had to find somewhere quickly. But this fine old piece does not respond well to having official papers thrust into its works. I deduced from the delay in the papers reaching this country's enemies that the thief had been forced to hide them near the scene of the crime which, LeStrade, was why I insisted on the room being sealed off and only you and Mr. Bruce-Partington maintaining the keys until my investigations were complete. Which they now are.”

The inspector shook his head in disbelief.

“I also suspect you will find that your villain was also responsible for that other past matter you ascribed to poor Constable Wells here”, Sherlock said. “For whom I have one final question.”

“Of course sir”, the shocked constable stuttered.

“Who knitted your socks?”

The man looked as if Sherlock was demanding the answer to the Meaning of Life, the Universe and Everything.

“My s... s... socks, sir?”

“Woollen garments, worn on your feet?” Sherlock said, patiently if a tad sarcastically. LeStrade sniggered.

“My wife, sir.”

“Then you may tell that good woman that she inadvertently helped to clear your name.”

“She did, sir? How? Er, if you don't mind me asking?”

Sherlock smiled.

“I lied about the gold thread”, he said, “but I took care to examine the _insides_ of those boots in your locker. The socks that your wife knitted for you are I can see dark green while the standard police issue are blue or black. There were several threads inside those boots - _and two of them were black_. I knew therefore that someone else must have donned your boots hence that your 'colleague' – I use the word advisedly – was setting you up.”

“Thank you, sir!” the constable said fervently.

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“A bent copper!” LeStrade said in disgust as we drove away from the monstrosity that was Shipston House. “Just like I thought – except I fingered the wrong one!”

“That is a peril of the job”, Sherlock said consolingly. “Policemen spend so long working with criminals so they see not just that crime brings rewards but also how to avoid detection. There will always be bad applies like Constable Marks. You must ensure they do not turn the whole barrel bad. In your position you can do just that.”

“I failed to spot Marks though”, the inspector said morosely.

“But you knew that _something_ was wrong”, Sherlock countered. “Luckily it all worked out for the best. A pleasant little case.”

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_Notes:_   
_† Now Taiwan._   
_‡ Ryojun City in Japan (1936); today (2020) Lushunküo in China. It had been named for Lieutenant William Arthur, who had been in charge of and had saved a British warship by towing it into the port during the Second Opium War (1856-1860)._

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	7. Case 219: The Adventure Of The Cuddly Toy ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Sherlock is threatened with the ultimate weapon if he does not investigate a case for a family member concerning a panda, a crossbow and an upset little girl.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I thrust back into John as hard as I could, relishing his pained moan as he tried to come for a fourth time. That would teach the snarky bastard to make fun of _me!_

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It had started like a fairly normal November day, just two days before Guy Fawkes's Night. It was bitterly cold outside with one of those swirling London fogs, and I was grateful that John had been able to swap his surgery day this week to yesterday when it has been several degrees warmer. I had doubted that we would get any clients in this weather but I was wrong, for not long after nine my cousin Luke was announced. He looked unusually serious which was not like him, although at least Benji had left him more or less in one piece this time.

The bastard still winced when he sat down, though!

“How bad is it?” I asked. “Please tell me that my mother has not Commanded us to attend another of her Readings?”

Arguably the worst authoress known to Mankind was I knew going through another Ancient Greek phase, her latest horror having been '300' in which the legendary Hercules had to travel back in time to Thermopylae, where he had to guide those famous three hundred Spartans to Hades - _after having had sex with each and every one of them!_. She was well into the two hundreds the last time that I had dared to check, which meant no family visits until the danger was passed. If I ever found the idiot who had gotten her that list of all those names, they would be taking a walk along the bed of Old Father Thames!

“No, she is still cross with Randall over his boasting that he would get you back one of these days”, he said. “Apparently the three servants who overheard him all went and told her, and she was Displeased.”

“Only a Level Four”, John said. “Disappointing.”

“Not really”, Luke grinned. “She has decided that he can edit all three hundred stories when she is done. Something that I am sure he is looking forward to!”

“Like root canal surgery!” I smiled. “So what drags you all the way across London. Benji?”

“I am not that predictable!” he said crossly. 

We both just looked at him. He sighed.

“Leave a man some pride here!” he grumbled. 

“Why would we?” I asked innocently. “Benji never does!”

“True”. He agreed. “Yes, it is Benji. I paid for him and Bertha to go to that fair near their place yesterday, and they mostly liked it. She is expecting Jackson-Giles Mark Twelve for next March, so it was a nice day out for them.”

I thought wryly that the advent of yet another version of my favourite Great Eastern Railway deputy manager meant the absolute certainty of the fellow working off his angst on the cousin before me. If he persisted in giving me details, he might well live to regret it! Or perhaps he might not!

 _“Mostly_ liked?” I asked. “What did they not like?”

“They had one of those stalls where you get to shoot ducks with some sort of crossbow thing”, he said. “Daft idea, but they had a giant panda there and young Anne really wanted it so he said that he would try to get it for her. He did not even hit one.”

I stared at him in surprise.

“Benji is quite a good shot”, I said. “That sounds suspicious.”

“He thought that there might have been something up with the weapon”, Luke said. “But he was with the family, and he did not want to make a fuss.”

I looked at him shrewdly. He blushed almost at once.

“I will look into this matter for you on one condition, Luke”, I said. “Namely that you never divulge to me what Benji promised you if I said yes.”

“Not to worry”, he grinned. “I doubt that I will survive it anyway!”

“You are terrible!” I sighed.

“He could be even worse”, John pointed out.

 _”How?”_ I demanded.

“He could ask Benji to come and give you his sad face until you do what he asks!” he grinned.

I glared at him. There were rules on the use of deadly weapons these days, damnation!

“Thank you for the idea, doctor”, Luke said cheerily. “I shall bear that in mind for next time!”

I hated them both!

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After I had very thoroughly fucked one utterly unhelpful city doctor out of encouraging the use of deadly weapons – as if I did not have enough work! – I very generously sent out for some chocolate slices from Branksome's for him and then ran him a bath. Although as I have said he only did one day a week at his surgery he was just now on emergency call for a couple of evenings, but luckily this was not one of them.

He relaxed back into my taller body. At times like this I often thought back to my horror at his return from Egypt nearly a decade ago when he had been a shadow of his former solid self, but now he was back to normal. Of course I helped him maintain that figure by working off all the chocolate that he ate, as well as very generously relieving him of at least some of his bacon every morning. I was kind-hearted like that.

“So good”, he said sleepily. “Life should always be this good.”

It should have been. Yet neither of us could know that in a little over six months everything would once again threaten to come crashing down around us both.

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Luckily the fair that Benji and his brood had attended was on its present site for another ten days, so I was able to call on one of my 'interesting' friends the following day who, most impressively, had the item that I wanted in my hands a little after lunchtime. John was at one of Sweyn's molly-houses tending to some of the 'boys' after a particularly rambunctious party the night before (which those men causing said rambunctiousness would have cause to regret in the coming days when they had some very unpleasant encounters in some dark alleys), and that was annoying considering who I was going to visit.

Sir Peter Greenwood did not take long to find out what was wrong with the weapon that I had brought him.

“The sights have been tampered with”, he said, “and the weapon is weighted to one side. Anyone shooting from this would find the dart going nearly a clean foot higher as well as slightly to the left.”

I frowned. I understood that the men who ran these stalls had to make a living, but this was too much.

“You go to a shooting-club, do you not?” I asked.

“Yes”, he said. “With all our children Anne does not like having anything other than my own gun in the house, so I keep all my weapons there now. Why?”

He was right about that ‘all’. The dog was nearly as prodigious as dear Benji!

“Because hopefully some of your friends will be up for a little sport!” I grinned.

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Things fell into place just as I had hoped, and Luke arranged for Benji and his family to have a second day out at the fair as their eldest son Benjamin Junior had been ill and had missed the last one. Sir Peter Greenwood and I were standing near the duck-stall when they approached and 'just happened' to meet us there. Of course young Anne was less interested in a knight of the realm and more in another chance for her wonderful daddy to get her that panda, so Sir Peter offered to try his luck. 

I caught the man at the stall grinning as he handed him the weapon. Had he known that all his weapons had been removed and replaced with ones perfectly balanced and sighted, he might have been rather less confident. Had he known that the fair organizers were set to be handed the weighted weapons with a suggestion that if they did not act, the newspapers might well be informed, that smile would not have existed at all.

Sir Peter, as everyone knows, once saved John's life from the villainous Mr. Jonathan Clay with his sharpshooting, picking off the vermin at a distance of well over a hundred yards. A line of slow-moving metal ducks a mere ten yards away from him had no chance. He downed three with his first three shots, and the startled fellow at the stall had no choice but to hand over the giant panda to the squealing delight of Miss Anne Jackson-Giles, whose father almost predictably had to be handed a handkerchief by his wife as he got all emotional again (I tried very hard not to think that a certain cousin of mine would be reaping those emotions before too long, damn the fellow!). 

I could see the fellow manning the stall thinking that he had surely only been that unlucky the once. That was true – for now. However out there and all headed this way were eleven of the baronet's friends, all excellent shooters. Some were with their own families while others had those of friends with them. It was going to be a very expensive night for someone.

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Two days later I got a telegram from Luke. It said simply 'Ow!'

I had no cousin!

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	8. Interlude: Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896: Someone is really thankful.

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

I had always dreaded reaching fifty, as I had felt that that was when I would be really old. Still that was not a problem just now – _because another weekend like that and I would not make it to fifty!_

My broken body shuddered and I felt a delicious spasm of pain as Benji managed another step down, the Banjax thrusting into what was left of my innards and my cock twitching as it tried to come on empty for Lord alone what number of times. God, it was glorious!

Benji had been upset the other week partly because of something I had planned for him that had not quite gone right. He, Bertha and their family had enjoyed their day out at the fair but it had been slightly marred when Anne had wanted a large cuddly panda at one of those stupid duck-shooting stalls and Benji had been unable to win it for her. I had been suspicious at once; my lover was I knew a good shot yet he had not hit a single duck. I had contacted Sherlock and he had found that the crossbows used had been weighted and misaligned so that accurate shooting would have been impossible. The clever fellow had had them stolen, realigned and returned, and had then arranged for a number of his friends to take their families or meet up with others to make a damn expensive day for the stall-holder. And young Anne had got her panda.

And now an emotionally grateful Benji had got me. I clung feebly to his muscular form and wondered if I might need to take Tuesday off as well as Monday. I would certainly not be sitting down tomorrow....

That was when the doorbell rang. To my horror Benji immediately loped down the rest of the stairs, apparently heedless of my broken body being fucked very thoroughly by the Banjax all the way down. I just had to cling on for the 'ride'. This could not be worse!

Then Benji opened the door.

“Hullo Danny, Lloyd”, he grinned. “I've got him nice and loose, ready for you.”

The bastard really was trying to kill me through sex. My life could not have been any better!

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	9. Case 220: The Adventure Of The Purbeck Killing ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Dorsetshire once more, and history repeats itself most horribly at the scene of a murder some nine centuries back – except that this time there is no handy evil stepmother around.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

When I wrote up my recollections of this gruesome affair John pointed out to me that I had to provide what he called 'historical context' (and what I called 'old stuff') because it related to what happened in deepest Dorsetshire that cold December of 'Ninety-Five. I would have said no but he was the writer as a rule, not I, and he offered to do that thing again where he would be totally...

Ahem!

To the history, while I can still hold a pen and concentrate at one and the same time. I will admit that I found one part of this normally dry subject interesting in that one of the first English kings, the tenth-century Edgar the Peaceable (957-975), appears to have had a great reputation yet was frankly something of a disappointment when one looked at what he actually _did_. It was his failure in one of the most important areas of kingship, securing the succession, which led to the first set of dark events at Corfe Castle in Dorsetshire towards which we were now speeding courtesy of the London & South Western Railway Company.

King Edgar had married one, two or possibly three times (the reader will shortly understand that strange phrasing). By his first wife he had a son Edward, by his second a daughter Edith and by his third (to a woman whose husband had been one of his chief lords and whom he had had murdered because he fancied his lady wife for his own) he had an Edmund and an Ethelred, the latter of whom would famously if incorrectly grow up to become known as 'the Unready'. The first two marriages were both irregular in some way – Saxon marriages seemed to have a 'hire and fire' element which would have made many of those campaigning for women's suffrage have the vapours! - and he had settled the succession on Edmund, the elder son of his third, second or possibly even only real union. However when that prince died young the king seems to have not bothered to make it clear who should succeed him, and when he himself died in 975 things were a mess. 

Matters were further complicated by the fact that Edgar had bolstered his position by being very pro-Church – this was the era of Saint Dunstan, without doubt the most insufferable fellow in first millennium England – and naturally his thirteen-year-old eldest son Edward reacted to this by following a pro-baronial policy instead. The rule of eldest son inherits was a practice rather than a firm rule at this time, and Edward endured three years of his stepmother Aelfrida (yes, my mother's name!) and younger brother trying to wrest his crown from him until he visited them at Corfe one fateful March day in 978 and was 'unfortunately killed' when his horse bolted. Hmm. 

His stepbrother was crowned within days and went on to have one of the worst reigns ever recorded in this island's long history; all poor Edward got was the 'consolation prize' of later being canonized (John wondering if the evil Aelfrida compounded her crimes by writing bad fiction was.... well, maybe pushing it). His reason for making me narrate this sort of usually unimportant matter was however a simple one. For a second body had been found at Corfe Castle, and once again the cause of death was more than a little suspicious. 

Especially as the dead man had been one Mr. Edward King!

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“This is almost creepy”, John said as we entered the New Forest, about an hour away from our destination. “A second dead royal Edward!”

“Maybe all we have to do is find his evil stepmother?” I smiled. “Obviously she must be guilty again some nine centuries on.”

“Or she has been reincarnated as a terrible story-writer?” he smiled.

I swatted at him for that, no matter how right he was (very).

“The 'Times' has very little on the matter”, he frowned. “I do not like that at all.”

“Why not?” I asked, eyeing him lasciviously. He ran his finger around his collar and blushed most prettily. Unfortunately this was a rare corridor train so I could not jump his delicious bones much as I wanted to, but I would be checking the timetables when it was time for our return. Many slower trains were still non-corridor ones.....

“Down, boy!” he complained, although he smiled as he said it. “You think of nothing but sex.”

“That is untrue”, I said. “I shall be devoting all my mental powers towards resolving this case.”

“Good.”

“Only then I shall be thinking about nothing but sex!”

He shook his head at me. But I saw that smile!

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For those who do not know it the Isle of Purbeck, unlike Uffa where we solved the matter of the Hereward Dagger, is not an actual island as there is a narrow connection with the rest of Dorsetshire at its western extremity. It protrudes into the English Channel south of Poole Bay and west of the growing resort of Bournemouth, and its principal town is the seaside resort of Swanage. The castle itself was, John had told me, a ruin having been slighted after it had been taken by the Parliamentarians at the end of the English Civil War. I thought that a rather vindictive act; the war almost over and this being an out of the way sort of place, but then those had been dangerous times. And worse, the place had been successfully held against all those troops by a 

At Wareham we turned off the main line that continued west to the county town Dorchester and after only a short trip were passing through the narrow defile in the Purbeck Hills that the castle had once guarded. One could not miss even the still impressive remains, rising high on a clearly man-made hill and towering above us as we pulled into the little country station.† A Constable Peter Torrington was waiting for us; he was more than glad for our assistance for reasons that he soon divulged.

“Damn local politics!” he sighed as we walked through a most pleasant little village towards the looming castle ruins, for now closed off to the public for obvious reasons. “My sergeant is down in Swanage and he is champing at the bit, as if he expects me to magic up a murderer out of thin air!”

“It was definitely murder then?” I asked. “The London newspapers were not sure.”

“Stabbed with a fine knife before he was dumped here”, the constable said heavily. “Doctor Finlay who looked at the body thought that he may have been moved after he was killed, which of course the sergeant won't have for love nor money. He wasn't happy about the time of death, either.”

“Why not?” John asked. “He can hardly refute the evidence.”

“If it is dubious he may wish to”, I said. “Because if the body was moved then that opens up the possibility that he was killed elsewhere – perhaps in the sergeant's own town. That way he can get the credit if the case is solved but avoid the blame if it is not.”

The constable nodded.

“It's all a bit of a mess, sirs”, he said. “Mr. King lived in Swanage and worked as a clerk for the town council Monday to Friday, but worked here showing visitors round of a weekend. The body was found on a Sunday, see.”

“When did they realize he was missing?” I asked.

“The place doesn't open much outside the summer season”, the constable explained, “so he wasn't actually due up here on the day he died, which was odd. He left his house on the seafront and his neighbour, a right nosy old bat called Mrs. Burley, saw him go and thought he was on duty; I used to patrol there when I started and she was always on at me for something or other. He must have taken the train up – he doesn't have a carriage or anything – but no-one saw him after she did. He had loaned a colleague of his a book and the fellow came round to return it about three. _He_ knew that the castle was shut and besides, Mr. King has said he would be in at that time, so he got worried. Sergeant was a bit wary of starting a fuss but luckily this fellow was a friend of the mayor's son so he sent up to me to check at the castle just in case. I found him lying right in the middle of the courtyard; they'd made no attempt to hide him.”

“Just like the original”, John muttered.

The sergeant looked at him in confusion. I suppressed a smile.

“King Edward the Martyr was supposedly dragged to his death when a horse bolted just as he was leaving”, he explained, looking sharply at me. “That would have been in the courtyard as well.”

“It seems history is indeed intent on repeating itself”, I observed with my best innocent expression that was not even close to a smirk. “I do not suppose that the late Mr. King is possessed of a scheming stepmother and a gullible younger stepbrother by any chance?”

The constable was looking at us as if he was wondering about our sanity! 

“He was unmarried”, he said, “and his parents had passed. I don't know about any brothers; I suppose we'll have to look into that.”

“He was rich, of course”, I said casually.

The constable looked at me even more strangely.

“How would you be knowing that, sir?” he asked.

“Elementary”, I said. “You said that he _owned_ a seafront property, not that he rented it, yet he worked as a clerk to the town council. He could afford a house in such a prime position on his salary? I think not, so he had to have had money from somewhere.”

“He was very private”, the constable said. “Even Mrs. Burley didn't know that much about him, and the government should be employing her as one of them spies the way she finds things out, the nosy old bat!”

I smiled at that.

“If he does have family then his will is a factor”, I said. “We cannot assume either that a next brother would inherit all or even that it could be split; he may have loathed his entire family and have left it all to the local dogs' home!”

We were through the huge gatehouse at that moment and into the wide castle courtyard where the body had been found. My local fount of knowledge on all things historical had told me last night that this building had been built after the one in which the luckless young Saxon king had met his end as well as several other historical titbits. I may or may not have fully absorbed them as I had been trying to fuck his brains out at the time, but there you are. 

“They were definitely not trying to hide the body”, I said smiling to myself at some Very Happy Thoughts and at what was definitely a manly tremble from someone nearby when I looked pointedly at him. “So we are looking for either someone with historical knowledge or someone who knew the victim well. Possibly both. I wonder....”

I looked around the grim walls now open to the grey late autumn skies.

“Constable”, I said, “has the _whole_ castle been searched?”

He looked at me in confusion.

“Only the area around the body, sir”, he said. “And between there and the gatehouse. Why?”

“Because I have an idea that there may be a clue around here somewhere”, I said. “It will not show who the murderer was but it may advance us a step towards finding them. I think that we should start looking.”

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The constable very generously agreed to go round the higher parts of the walls – I had seen John's face when he had suddenly foreseen the prospect of those heights and his acrophobia coming together rather badly – while the two of us examined the lower areas. I looked up at one huge crumbling tower and read the small plaque on a post in the ground before it.

“'Eleanor of Brittany'”, I said. “'Imprisoned here for much of her nearly four decades of captivity'. John, who was she?”

“A niece of my horrible namesake”, he said ruefully, “Bad King John. He murdered his nephew Arthur because the boy had a better claim to the throne that him, and imprisoned Arthur's twin sister Eleanor for forty years until she died. A horrible way to go.”

“At least he kept her alive”, I said. “I would have thought that a woman ruler would have been considered impossible at that time in history.”

“It was not just her”, he explained. “She might have married and had a son, who could then have become a rival. Like happened with the Wars of the Roses later.”

“The beautiful princess trapped in the tower”, I smiled. “Like a fairy-tale.”

He shook his head at me.

“But I have you down from the tower now”, I said. “My own beauty, all mine.”

He smiled before he got it.

“Wait a minute!” he snapped. “Why do _I_ have to be the princess?”

I was still smirking when there was a shout from the constable high above. We waited and eventually he came down, holding a brown envelope in his handkerchief. 

“I found this under a stone by the arrow-slit thing up there”, he said. “I don't suppose there are fingerprints but you never know.”

“Considering that the murderer must have left it there for us to find”, I said, “I doubt that.”

He stared at me.

“How can you know the murderer left it there, sir?” he asked.

I extracted a small case from my jacket pocket and took a set of tweezers from it. Taking the envelope from the constable I eased open the only folded down top but hesitated before pulling out the contents.

“Because I would wager that this will contain an allegation that Mr. Edward King was far from what he appeared”, I said.

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“No-one likes a smug bastard!”

It was some time later, and we had continued to Swanage where we had obtained a room for the night. And I had not smirked all the way down from Corfe.

There had been that time when I had coughed.

“The police will now of course institute a full investigation into the background of Mr Edward King”, I said. “I sincerely doubt that they will find anything, but that will only make them think that it has been very successful covered up, no doubt by government agents.”

“If governments behaved better then people might not be so inclined to always think the worst of them”, he said pointedly.

I thought for no particular reason of a particularly unpleasant lounge-lizard brother of mine.

“Sergeant Beachball seems to think you did it”, he grinned. I stared at him reprovingly.

“Sergeant Barnard _Beech_ is the sort of person to be suspicious of everybody”, I said. “He cannot help his perhaps slightly rotund figure.”

“At least they will have solved the crime of who ate all the pies!” he grinned.

I sighed. He really was terrible. But I still loved him!

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We decided to go out for a walk before dinner that evening and walked to the lifeboat station before taking the path along the coast south for a way. It was still heavily overcast but considering it was almost winter it was not that cold, even if it was now all but dark. We had the place to ourselves and that was good.

“Your schoolboy humour is getting worse, you know”, I said conversationally. “I will have to rein you in if you keep on like this.”

“Going to dig out the paddle again?” he said hopefully. We had used that on a couple of occasions since I had obtained it but I was wary of doing it too often as his rapid breathing and tears afterwards (even though he assured me they were ones of happiness) meant that I did not wish to push him too far.

“I was thinking of something else”, I said moving closer to him. 

He countered my move, clearly enjoying my body-heat, and smiled – until he realized that I had got my hand past his belt and firmly around his cock.

“Sherlock!”

“Bad boys need to be punished!” I said. “Also to be made to work.... harder!”

I jerked him off rapidly, revelling in the excited moans I was drawing out of him. The lights of the town were below us but there would be no-one out along a cliff-side path at this time of the evening. Just as well really.

His voice got higher and higher, and I could feel the pressure building as he fought against it. He was shuddering now, and I decided that he had suffered enough – this time.

“Come!” I whispered.

The feeling of absolute power as the beautiful man achieved release at my command, followed by his awed stare at me afterwards – I did not deserve such happiness. But I would work hard over the rest of my life to try to get even some of the way towards that.

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Sergeant Beachball – damn John, he had me doing it now! – Sergeant _Beech_ was as I said far from friendly towards us, but he did provide one Constable Kipps to assist us around Swanage. The fellow was short and had a permanently worried expression but he was friendly enough, and the morning after the night before he was able to provide myself and what was left of John – I had done him a second time coming out of our hotel bathroom that morning – with the results of his inquiries into Mr. King's family.

“Not that there is much of one”, he admitted, “but at least we were able to find where he got most of his money. His father was Mr. James King, the fellow behind the Kinver Company scandal four years back.”

I was surprised at that. The collapse of the Kinver Mining Company had barely drawn my attention as it had occurred just days before John and I had had to flee to the United States in our attempt to escape the evil Professor Moriarty. In a smaller scale version of the famous South Sea Bubble, many foolish people had been drawn to what looked like huge wealth in a rich new coal seam discovered beneath the Kinver Forest west of Birmingham. Only later had it emerged that the reports had been fabricated, by which time the directors of the company (and of course their investors' money) had long disappeared. Mr. James King had run the company that had produced the report and his sudden wealth about that time had led to a strong suspicion that he had been in on the whole ramp, but nothing was able to be proven and the case against him had had to be dropped. Although that as it had turned out had not quite been the end of matters. 

The constable nodded.

“As you know, someone murdered Mr. James King the day after the official report came out letting him off”, he said. “He had three sons and a daughter but he left the whole lot to his youngest Mr. Edward and asked that he not pass it on to anyone else in the family. The others were all for him trying to compensate the poor saps who he did over but Mr. Edward, they say, was cut from much the same cloth.”

“Surely Mr. James King could not have forced his son to do that?” John asked. 

“Asking was good enough as it turned out”, the constable said. “Mr. Edward's own will was straightforward; he had picked ten charities and they each got ten per cent. Nothing to blood, as his father had asked.”

I frowned.

“I think that we should speak to Mrs. Burley”, I said. “She was the last person to see the victim alive, as far as we know.”

John looked at me sharply. As I said, he really was getting far too good at spotting when I was saying things in a certain way.

“There may well have been someone else”, I explained. “We know he was murdered somewhere else, but that may have been somewhere in Corfe Castle.”

“But he had no reason to go there”, he pointed out. “He was not working that day.”

“Maybe he was meeting someone”, I said. “Perhaps even his killer. I sent a telegram to a friend of mine in London this morning and they are undertaking a certain line of inquiry which may prove fruitful.”

“Which is?” the constable asked hopefully.

“Clearly none of the dead man's family had a financial motive to kill him”, I said, “and there are few people who are so annoying that one kills them just for that.”

I just _knew_ that John was thinking of one Mrs. Michaela Hustings, or more likely a certain lounge-lizard brother of mine. He saw me looking at him and blushed prettily.

“I also doubt that the charities he left money to are in the habit of murdering to get their hands on funds”, I said, “or at least I hope that they are not, so that leaves the victims of the Kinver Company scandal. I think that one of them may be behind this killing, but given the numbers involved in that affair it will be difficult to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. We shall see.”

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Two days later I received a telegram from Miss St. Leger. She had found my needle.

“It is bad news, I am afraid”, I told Sergeant.... _Beech_ (it would have helped if he had not have been wearing an unfortunate wide-striped and gaudily coloured shirt that made him look just like his nickname). “The killer has been found.”

The sergeant stared at me.

“How is that bad news?” he demanded.

“Because they have since decamped to Germany”, I said, “and given the less than wonderful relations between our two nations at the moment I cannot see Kaiser Wilhelm being that eager to hand them back. The murderer was one Miss Sally Tunbridge....”

“A woman!” the sergeant exclaimed.

“Women can be murderers”, I said patiently, not missing Constable Kipps's hastily hidden smile at his superior's discomfiture. “Her family lost nearly everything in the Kinver Company affair and she swore revenge on the Kings. She may also have been the person behind the assassination of Mr. James King in 'Ninety-Two.”

“But why did she wait three years to take out the son, then?” the sergeant asked.

“After the collapse Mr. James King swiftly lodged most of his money overseas, presumably thinking that a case might still be made against his estate”, I said. “Mr. Edward King had spent the last few years gradually bringing it all back; he could not do it in one go because that might have drawn attention and possibly even some renewed claims for compensation. The last sum was returned only last week; I would presume that Miss Tunbridge found out somehow. Her brother is a financier, which was likely how she knew.”

“So she's got away with it!” the sergeant said disgustedly. “Damnation!”

“I am sorry”, I said. “Sadly not ever case I investigate can end in complete success. But at least your official files can mark the matter as closed.”

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I was not surprised either to receive no thanks from the sergeant nor that John was unusually quiet that day. He said nothing as we went not back to the railway station but a little way along the promenade to a small bed and breakfast place, where I introduced myself to the owner Miss Lupin (another lady who seemed to have something wrong with her eye from the way that she kept looking at me) and asked to see a Miss Emma Arley who was staying there. We were duly shown up to Room Two where a young lady of about twenty-five was clearly preparing to leave. Her face fell when we were introduced, but she rallied well. 

I waited until the landlady was gone before speaking. 

“Be not afraid”, I said comfortingly. “As I am sure you are aware we apply justice before the law, although in this instance it seems that you got there before us.”

“What is going on?” John asked curiously. I turned to him.

“John, meet Miss Emma Arley”, I said. “The murderer of Mr. Edward King.”

“Executioner, not murderer”, she corrected.

“That is debatable”, I said. “You do not deny it?”

She looked at me scornfully.

“That man ruined my life”, she said, her voice cold with hatred. “My family is destroyed. My father blew his brains out when he was told. We have nothing; the Kings took it all. So I took their lives.”

She said it so coldly that even I felt a scintilla of fear.

“Why have you not brought the police?” she asked curiously. “I fear nothing. I have what I want.”

“Do you?” I asked. “What about the rest of your family? Do they not deserve the chance to rebuild their lives after all this? How will your trial and execution help?”

“We are broken already”, she said. “We can go no lower.”

“But you can go higher”, I said. “I have thought on this matter and I see no gain to be had from adding your death on top of everything.”

“She murdered someone”, John said quietly.

“I murdered two people”, she said. “I watched them die, the same as I had to watch my own father die at their hands. I enjoyed watching them die.”

“If someone threatened the one I loved, I would do the same”, I said. “I know that for a fact.”

Even though I was not looking at him I could sense the change in John. He knew about whom I was talking.

“A friend of mine in London has created a fake persona similar to yourself”, I said. “Miss Sally Tunbridge, the evidence will show, was guilty of both murders and she has escaped to Germany which given the current state of international relations will hardly be inclined to hand her over any time soon. She will soon meet with a fatal accident there in some highly suspicious but unprovable circumstances, then her non-existent life will be over. You will return home and help rebuild your family. I will help.”

“How?” she asked warily.

“Wills can be overturned”, I said. “I will use what contacts I have to try to extract from the Kings the moneys that they stole. But first tell me how you did it.”

She smiled.

“I had a cart”, she said, “and I went to his house in the small hours of the morning. He had left a window open and I was soon inside. I chloroformed him first because I wanted him to know the reasons for his death before I sent him to join his father in hell. Then I killed him. I took him the long way round to Corfe and got him into the castle; I thought that the comparisons with the old story might throw police off. I think I was seen going back to Swanage but whoever it was said nothing.”

“My only mistake was not knowing that he was not supposed to be working that day; I thought that he would be because the castle was having some big Christmas event, but that turned out to be the following weekend. I made sure the nosy neighbour was up and around before dressing myself in some of his clothes and sauntering off towards the station. I then had to make sure no-one got too close to see me which was a pain, but I made it to the train and went up to Corfe. I had left the cart there so I took that back and waited to see how it all turned out.”

“Very successfully”, I said. “The doctor noticed the discrepancy about the time of death but he had already been told that the dead man had been seen alive that morning, so he thought that the cold weather had misled him. I believe, Miss Arley, that you are one of that small band of murderers who will commit your act of vengeance and then let it drop, rather than slide into a life of crime. But before you go, remember this. My contacts may have assisted you this time but they will also keep a weather eye on you in future. Make sure you keep to the straight and narrow from now on.

“I will”, she smiled, clearly relieved. “And thank you!”

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My wonderful John did not of course challenge me over my decision, as he could see this was another example of someone who had, very rarely, killed for a 'right' reason. I kept my word to Miss Arley in using my contacts to help out the victims of the Kinver Company, although I am sorry to say that some of the charities who found they might not be benefiting as expected threatened to go to court and ruin everything with legal fees. Fortunately thanks to the efforts of Luke they were 'dissuaded', and the remaining members of the King family were much more helpful so I was able to achieve a settlement that gave back at least some of the stolen moneys to the many victims involved.

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_Notes:_   
_† Today (2020) the railway between Norden just west of Corfe Castle and Swanage is an excellently-run private steam railway, and trains occasionally continue to the mainline at Wareham where the society running the line hopes to establish a permanent service soon._

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	10. Case 221: The Adventure Of The Avenging Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. Another set of consecutive cases with a similar theme, as there are more revenge killings. Justice is delayed but not denied when a man belatedly learns the truth and sets out to kill – five times!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the Abergavenny case.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Between one case involving bloody vengeance and another involving even bloodier vengeance, there occurred on the last day of 'Ninety-Five a joyous event when the recently wed Tristram and Iseult Gregson had their first child, a daughter Isla. Both our friends Gregson and LeStrade had had grandchildren before and it was rather amusing that they both turned up on the same day to inform us of the news. I am sure that it happened to be Mrs. Malone's carrot-cake day was neither here not there and Sherlock really should not be laughing like that at his age.

But perhaps the real miracle in this instance was that our landlady who, for whatever reason, had made the new grandfathers a celebration cake to take away – _and they actually managed to share it without getting into an argument!_ I checked afterwards, but there was still no sign of the parallel universe that I had apparently strayed into.

Sherlock could really stop shaking his head at me. I was right, damnation!

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One of the many observations that my astute readers made, as my original stories came out all those years ago, was the apparent slackening of Sherlock's caseload as the years passed. My readers did not seem to understand that while the demand for Sherlock's services remained as strong as it ever had been and if anything actually increased slightly, several factors led to my being able to release rather fewer cases in our latter years. For one thing we were both getting older – I marked my forty-fourth birthday this year while most unfairly someone marked only their forty-second and nearly eight months later. Then again, he did make both days quite memorable....

He is smirking again, damn the fellow!

Another factor in what seemed to my readers as times when (in their opinion) I was being the meanest meanie from Meanie Town and not sharing our adventures with them was that while the cases continued to flow I naturally only wanted to write up those that were of some interest. Cases that were similar to earlier ones were generally not covered because I did not wish to become what they called 'a stale writer' (although I did make exceptions to that rule when covering cases that I had mentioned in passing in my original stories and that had been requested by my readers). And a third factor was that with our recent travails Sherlock was becoming more careful about accepting potentially dangerous cases and was notably reluctant to take anything that involved a significant element of danger.

Despite all this I have to accept the fact that I originally published but one case dated to this year of 'Eighty-Six, and even in that I did mask the perpetrator of the crime. That vile person's actions were to later result in my taking Sherlock somewhere for a long period of recovery – but before that, we had a number of other cases, none of which I had been able to publish at the time for various reasons. For the first and arguably the bloodiest of them the recent death of the key protagonist and a letter that they had instructed their lawyer to have forwarded to me decided me that it was now time to reveal to the world the truth about Sherlock's involvement in solving not just the murder of Lord Abergavenny but also the bloody aftermath which brought that crime back to the Nation's attention some two years later. For unlike in Purbeck we identified the murderer before they committed their fifth and final crime – yet we both stood back and did nothing to stop them. 

Because justice would be done.

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This case originated in events that occurred just three weeks before Sherlock's return from the dead in 'Ninety-Four. Along with the Brackhampton and Easington affairs during the Early Hiatus, it was one of the few cases to catch my attention in the dark days during which I had thought to have lost the love of my life. It did so primarily because the murderer surely had to have been one of a small number of people yet nothing could be proven against any of them.

Mr. William Treforrest, better known by his title of Lord Abergavenny, had been holding a sixtieth birthday party on his private island of Skarad off the west Pembrokeshire coast. Attending were his wife Queenie, his sister Hyacinth and his sons Roger and James. There had been only three servants with them and two of those had taken the boat to the mainland only to be caught there when a storm had blown in leaving just the valet, Mr. Jock MacDonnell, on the island. The following day the police had been summonsed and had found Lord Abergavenny dead, a dagger protruding from his back. There were perhaps surprisingly finger-prints on it but they did not match those of any of the five people on the island. It was the unspoken opinion of just about everyone that one or more of those people had done the deed as all were joint beneficiaries under Lord Abergavenny's will, except of course for the valet who received only the usual nominal sum for his service. But proving anything had been impossible and, predictably, lack of progress in the investigation had led to the case fading from the public consciousness.

That was until last week when Mr. MacDonnell had been found stabbed to death outside his new master's home in Ayr, Scotland. And pinned to his jacket, the killer had left a note with the names of the five suspects on it, with the valet's name crossed out! The implication had been clear; for whatever reason someone was now targeting those at Lord Abergavenny's murder.

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Our client in this case was coincidentally the current Lord Abergavenny, Lord Roger. He was an unprepossessing fellow of about forty years of age, with thinning dark hair and a portly figure. Like rather too many of his social standing he seemed to be of the opinion that because he was a lord, Sherlock would simply _have_ to say yes to him. He would not have been the first member of high society to be brought down to earth with a bump and I confidently expected a rapid dismissal, but to my surprise Sherlock hesitated.

“You do understand”, he said, “that in the course of my investigations, all sorts of things may come out. Some even to the detriment of my client.”

“What do you mean?” the nobleman demanded.

“What happened on Skarad?” Sherlock countered.

There was a short but definite pause before the man answered. Far too many of my patients did that as they worked out what they did not want to tell me about their symptoms, mostly those who would later claim that I had misdiagnosed them because I should somehow have _known_ that they had been withholding from me. And then got annoyed because my medical diploma did not apparently extend to mind-reading!

“I have no idea”, he said loftily. “Father went out for a walk – Lord alone knows where; the place was less than a mile wide – and when he came back he went straight into his study. When he did not emerge for dinner James and I went to fetch him. That was when we found him dead; we entered the room together as I told the police. The French windows were open but there is no way anyone could have got off that island during the storm unless they had grown wings and flown off!”

“Like Icarus”, Sherlock smiled. “We all know what happened to him. I find this matter intriguing, my lord, and I am prepared to accept it as my next case. May I assume that you are staying at 'Usk House' just now?”

Our visitor nodded.

“Although if the newspapers are right then I am out of London”, he said firmly. “I am not staying around to get murdered like poor old MacDonnell.”

I thought wryly that the dead valet had found four hundred miles insufficient to avoid his killer so surely Wales was easily within their reach, but said nothing. Sherlock showed our client out and returned to his chair.

“Doubtless you are surprised at me for taking this case”, he said. 

“I am a little”, I admitted. “He was not the most pleasant of people.”

“When one deals with crime as a career one must expect that”, he said. “No, it is the fact that of the five people on that island someone targeted the _valet_ first. Whether or not it was one of the remaining four, including our client – it would not be the first time someone had attempted to use my poor talents to divert attention from their own evil deeds – the intention was clearly to instil fear in the others who were there on that fateful day.”

“I would never describe your talents as poor”, I smiled. 

I looked up as I was speaking then froze. He had that look in those impossibly blue eyes again.

“I have to be at the surgery in forty-five minutes!” I objected, trying to calm my suddenly rapid breathing.

“Then you had better start divesting yourself of those clothes quickly!” he grinned wolfishly, rising and heading to my room. “I shall be waiting!”

Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, I did exactly as I was told.

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In what little remained of my brain (most of it had departed long ago along with my dignity and manliness) I could visualize my gravestone. Here lies John Watson; died through too much sex. _Requiescat in pace – at last!_

Sherlock began to tickle me under my balls and incredibly I began to get hard again even though I had already come twice. I moaned as my head ached, with every drop of blood in my body having been diverted to my lower brain.

“So beautiful”, Sherlock murmured. “Even for someone of your great age!”

I would have glared at him but I was unable to muster the effort. I settled for another moan.

“I love the noises that I can get out of you like this”, he said. “I love seeing you wrecked afterwards and having to get through the rest of the day aching all over.”

At least there was that, I thought with what was left of my brain. I only had to drop some notes off at the surgery then I had a quiet day's writing ahead of me. Give me a cushion (or two) and I could get through it. I was sure of that. 

Fairly sure.

Then he did that thing where he tweaked one of my nipples without warning. Those terrible jokes they make about 'coming on empty and hurting on full' were, as I yet again found out, all too true. My eyes watered.

“Ah well”, he smiled. “Time to go.”

I managed to regain my vision and stared at him in confusion. 

“Go.... where?” I spluttered, quite proud that I was coherent enough to manage two whole words. Give me half an hour and I might achieve four.

“We are going to see Lady Hyacinth, our client's aunt and one of those on that ill-fated island”, he said. “We can drop your notes off at the surgery as it is on our way. We shall also have to call in and check the contents of her late brother's will.”

I gasped in horror. He just smirked.

“She lives up in Hertfordshire”, he said. “A place called Standon. Three cab rides, then a long railway journey in a bumpy suburban train that will probably not have first-class accommodation. Then the trip back. Are you ready?”

_He was trying to kill me!_

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I was not sure which was worse; walking or being jolted in a cab. I was sure that the surgery must have moved further away from Baker Street without my being informed, and I found the secretary Miss Fotheringay's knowing look as I handed in my notes and hobbled back out again just annoying! Justified, but still damnably annoying!

When Sherlock had said that we were visiting the lawyer's office I had assumed somewhere grand that would have befitted so noble a family as the Abergavennys. Instead – and after another ride that had my eyes watering again, damnation! – we drew up outside a small detached house in the Minories. I swatted away some horny bastard's offer of a hand and managed to walk fairly steadily up the path after him, praying fervently that our next cab would have better (or for that matter, any) suspension. 

We were duly admitted and after a short while we were ushered into a small study. It was the sort of place that I would have imagined belonged to a philatelist or numismatist, and the man sat at ease at the desk was not exactly lawyerly. He was short, in his sixties and possibly Jewish, I thought. Sherlock bowed.

“Mr. Tuscombe”, he said, his tone almost reverential. The man looked at him curiously.

“You have come about the Abergavenny case”, he said. “I see that it is back in the newspapers, and I did wonder if it might draw your attention. I presume that you wish to know about the will.”

I thought that odd. Wills after all became public documents upon a person's death, and an important one like Lord Abergavenny's had to have been in several newspapers at the time.

“I am”, Sherlock said.

“You are as so often correct to be suspicious”, Mr. Tuscombe said. “The published will stated that half the estate went to Lord Roger Abergavenny and the remainder was divided equally between his aunt, mother and younger brother. Apart from the new Lord Abergavenny however none of the other beneficiaries were allowed to touch the capital, receiving the interest quarterly, but that was more than enough to enable them to live quite comfortably.”

“Did the newspapers lie?” I asked, surprised. The fellow shook his head.

“Not intentionally”, he said. “There was a second will that amended the first. A tontine.”

 _“Oh”_ , Sherlock said. 

There was an ominous tone in that small word. My friend thought for a moment then spoke.

“Why was this not known when the first will was published?” he asked.

“That I do not know”, Mr. Tuscombe said, “but I have a suspicion. I think that you would do well to approach Mr. Truman, the butler. He knew about the existence of the second will but, acting on instructions from his late master, he waited two weeks before speaking. The tontine apart, the new will did not differ in any way from the old. I presume that the newspapers may have published a subsequent correction but I doubt that many people read it. As often happens when they correct their own errors I am sure that it was most likely buried somewhere at the back among the classified advertisements, rather than with the more recent wills.”

“The late Lord Abergavenny trusted his butler rather than his valet?” I asked, surprised. Mr. Tuscombe nodded.

“I was surprised at that too”, he said. “I wish you well in your endeavours, gentlemen.”

Sherlock bowed, placed an envelope (which I assumed contained some notes) on a side-table, and I followed him out. Though not before I caught Mr. Tuscombe smiling slightly at my wincing. Honestly, was nothing sacred?

“Not really”, muttered some annoying person who was not doing any laying any time soon.

Who was I kidding?

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Bethnal Green Junction. Cambridge Heath. London Fields. Hackney Downs. Rectory Road. Stoke Newington. Stamford Hill. Seven Sisters. Bruce Grove. White Hart Lane. Silver Street. Lower Edmonton (High Level). Southbury. Carterhatch Lane. Forty Hill. Turkey Street. Theobalds Grove. Cheshunt. Cadmores Lane. Broxbourne. Rye House. 

Those are the twenty-one – _twenty-bloody-one!_ \- stations between Liverpool Street and St. Margaret's Junction where we had to change for the Buntingford branch train and three more stops (Mardock, Widford and Hadham) before we would finally, _finally_ reach Standon. Stop after stop, my poor abused backside got jolted even in the first class-compartment which, praise be, there was after all. As for the preceding carriage ride to the Great Eastern Railway's London terminus that had been torture, not helped by Sherlock teasing me all the way. Sometimes I did not know why I put up with him. 

As things turned out however we were destined not to reach our destination. We were on the platform at the junction waiting for the Buntingford train to make its appearance when I decided to pass the time by purchasing a newspaper. I did not get any further than the first item of news which made me gasp in shock.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“It seems that we are too late”, I said heavily. “Lady Hyacinth Abergavenny was found stabbed at her home, Standon Manor, early this morning. Police suspect an intruder as a door to her private suite had been forced from the outside.” I paused before reading on, “this is the second death relating to the murder of Lord William Abergavenny some two years ago, his valet having been slain recently.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Three people left including our client”, he said. “We must find and warn them.”

For once he was wrong. There were not three people left. There was but one.

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It had been a local newspaper that I had picked up on the station platform although I fully expected Lady Hyacinth's death to be on the front page of the evening edition of the 'Times'. It was – but it had competition.

“The quality of the Thunderer is declining”, Sherlock sniffed as he perused the headline 'And Then There Was One!'. That same morning someone had stabbed Lord James Abergavenny in the street outside his Mayfair club and then crossed to Usk House where they had similarly dispatched Lady Queenie into the next world. Only by good fortune had our client Lord Roger been absent having gone to visit a friend's house.

“Good fortune or design?” I wondered. “And you still have not told me what a tontine is?”

He smiled at me.

“Would you like me to explain while we are horizontal?” he growled.

“Back off!” I not-whined. “I need some recovery time here! I just endured endless cab and train rides, and I cannot sit down without wincing. Have pity on the poor invalid!”

“I suppose that you _older_ men need your recovery time”, said someone who was not getting lucky any time soon (yes, I was getting delusional in my... later middle age). “Very well. A tontine is a legal device which can be written into a will or added as a codicil. What it meant in this case was that excluding the valet, the four people on that island when Lord William died each inherited the parts of the estate that they expected – but with a catch. As each one died off their share was to be divided in proportion amongst the other beneficiaries so the last survivor would get everything.”

My eyes widened.

“So it would be in Lord Roger's interests to kill off the other three at least”, I said, “as that would in effect double his inheritance. But then why kill the valet?”

“Possibly the valet knew something”, Sherlock said. He opened an envelope that had been lying on the table when we had entered. “This is Miss St. Leger’s information on the other two staff who were stranded on the mainland during the murder.”

“What can they tell us?” I wondered.

“Possibly nothing”, Sherlock said, “but we have precious little to go on as it is. Let us see.”

He read the letter quickly.

“The maid Georgina Ockham. Twenty-eight at the time and Lady Queenie's personal maid. I find that odd.”

“What?” I asked wincing as a sudden movement had brought on a sharp pain in my nether regions. I was sure that I caught the beginnings of a smirk from someone not far off.

“Why would Lady Queenie not keep her maid after the killing?” he wondered. “Unfortunately the girl has since obtained work with a family who have decamped to India, so we shall not be able to ask her anything unless we do so by telegraph. I suppose that we should be thankful that in this day and age we have that option. Then there is the butler, Mr. Raguel Truman whom Mr. Tuscombe advised was worth questioning. He had organised everything for the weekend that his master was to stay on the island.”

“An unusual name, Raguel”, I said. “It sounds like one of those angel names that were fashionable some years back.”

He nodded.

“Maybe not that one, as Miss St. Leger states that he was the angel of vengeance”, he said. “As with the maid I would have expected the butler to have remained on the island once he was there. One wonders if they were sent to the mainland to get them out of the way.”

“Why did they not have maids and serving-staff sent ahead to the island?” I asked. “That is the normal way of things.”

“I find that puzzling, too”, Sherlock said. “But if one is planning a murder – and it would have been easy enough for one of the four to make a last-minute change in the arrangements – then one does not want any more people around than is absolutely necessary. I note that Mr. Truman is a native of Pembrokeshire and has a small cottage that overlooks the island. He worked on the estate in various capacities before becoming Lord William's butler.”

“Where is he now?” I asked, as Sherlock opened a telegram.

“He is Lord Roger's butler now”, he said, reading his message. “Headed home with him according to the paper. Our client has decided that a small Welsh island is the safest place that he could be right now and with his butler has decamped there by the Great Western Railway. Possibly a wise move.”

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Sherlock, bless him, was gentle with me that evening and we spent some time just holding each other and discussing the case.

“What puzzles me”, he said eventually, “is the delay. Either Lord Roger is guilty, in which case proving it will be all but impossible, or he is the next and final victim – yet who would have a motive to dispatch him?”

“Did the butler get anything in the will?” I asked sleepily.

“Only the same nominal amount as other staff”, Sherlock said, “although his was slightly more because of his longer service. And the next in line to inherit after Lord Roger is his second cousin once removed, a Mr. Stanley Peters who has just emigrated to Australia, Not only that but he left two weeks ago and before the first death. When I checked I found that he was still on board his ship when it happened, although I suppose that he might have employed an agent to do any ‘dirty work’.”

“Maybe Mr. Truman is the real Raguel, the avenging angel bringing down justice on Lord William's killer”, I yawned. “Shining the light of truth into darkness. Goodnight.”

I slept peacefully and contentedly in his arms, unaware of the strange smile on his handsome face.

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“I am expecting a visitor today.”

Five days had passed and Sherlock had seemingly done nothing in the case. Still, at least Lord Roger had reached his island haven and was still alive, from the telegram that he had sent us. The local constable there was monitoring the only crossing to the island, although I felt that someone determined enough would find a way to get into and out of the place if they really wanted to. They had killed four times already, after all.

“Who is it?” I asked forking over half my bacon as per usual. He gave me that gummy smile that I loved so much.

“A man who has killed four people already and is about to commit murder for the fifth time”, he said calmly. I stared at him in astonishment.

“Who?” I asked.

“He should just be in Paddington soon”, he said evading my question. “That means that he will be here in about half an hour, maybe three-quarters if the London traffic is worse than usual. Salt?”

I glared at him. He was being mean! I looked warningly at his (and half of my) bacon and he wrapped his arms defensively around his plate as if I were the meanest mean breakfast companion ever!

He got the rest of my bacon as well. I truly was whipped!

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Sherlock must have alerted Mrs. Malone as to our client's arrival because usually she knew not to let people ascend at this time of a morning since 'someone' was not a morning person. It was only a short time later that we heard the tread of a gentleman outside and the door opened to reveal a smartly-dressed black-haired fellow of about forty years of age. 

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Truman”, Sherlock said politely. “Please take a seat. We shall not detain you for long and I understand that.... you have a lot to do.”

 _This must be the butler_ , I thought. _But what had Sherlock meant by that remark?_

“I know about the light-house keeper”, Sherlock said, to my further mystification. “I only lack one piece of the puzzle which I would ask you to provide. Why the two year delay?”

The butler looked at him warily but answered.

“Old Davy died not long after the storm”, he said, his Welsh accent slight but detectable. “He did not have a chance to tell his son about the letter, and the boy only found it a few weeks back. He came all the way to London to bring it to me in person, bless him.”

“What is going on?” I asked. Sherlock turned to me.

“I will explain”, he said, “although I warn you now John, this case will tax even your forbearance when we reach an outcome where the gap between justice and the law will yawn wider than it has ever done before. It all begins with a nobleman who, while on his island estate with four of his family and his valet, somehow learns that the five of them are conspiring to murder him and share out his wealth.”

“They all thought he was safely away in his study the other side of the house”, the butler said with a sigh. “He had left his fountain-pen in his bedroom and had returned to get it. That was when he overheard them discussing the plot in his wife's room next door.” 

“He knows that he is doomed, for if he challenges them it is one against five”, Sherlock continued. “He knows also why you and the maid have been sent to the mainland; with the storm coming in he is cut off from any help. It was assumed that the six of them were the only people on that island – but a remark from your good self the other day showed me that there was at least a seventh person there.”

“It did?” I asked bewildered. He nodded.

“'Shining a light'”, he reminded me. “The position of the island was such that I was sure that there would be a light-house in the area and sure enough it was on the island, or at least on a rock connected to it by a walkway. Lord William goes out for a short walk, visits the light-house and leaves a letter addressed to this gentleman that affirms the guilt of the people back at the house, then returns to meet his doom.”

“Why could he not try to just leave the island?” I wondered.

“Because the only harbour is right by the house” the butler said. “We had one of the two boats with us on the mainland; the other had a hole in it when we came back. I saw it but I did not know why at the time; I just thought that it had been damaged in the storm. Old Davy hardly spoke any English so a letter was the best way.”

“The untimely death of the light-house keeper hinders it”, Sherlock said, “but justice is only delayed, not denied. When you receive the letter, sir, you know that your master was murdered by the four people who now share his wealth and that doubtless the valet was suitably rewarded for his 'assistance' in the matter. You strike down four of them leaving the one man that you are in service with, as you know that he is an easy mark.”

“He asked me to come and see you today”, the butler smiled and I felt a chill run down my spine. “To reassure you that he was well.”

“But he is doomed is he not?” Sherlock asked bluntly. 

The butler nodded.

“I will report that a mysterious stranger has been seen in the village opposite”, he said, “then my lord will meet the same end as his fellow villains. A life for a life.”

“Five lives for a life in this instance”, Sherlock said dryly. 

I shook myself, and only slowly realized that they were both looking at me now.

“What?” I asked.

“If we allow this man to walk out of that door”, Sherlock said calmly, “he will return to Skarad and murder his master.” He turned back to our visitor. “What are your plans thereafter?”

“Pembrokeshire is my home”, the butler said. “I would stay there. The allowance that Lord William left me generates an income that is more than sufficient for my few needs, and I would spend the rest of my days watching the island where it all happened.”

He stood up and I realized the full import of what Sherlock had said. This man would leave Baker Street and commit murder if we did not stop him. The murder of a man who had committed patricide.

We let him go.

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A few days later I was unsurprised to read in the 'Times' that Lord Roger Abergavenny had been stabbed on the same island where his father had met his end. Police were looking for a man of foreign appearance who had been sighted by the dead man's butler in the village opposite the island's sole landing-place.

“I doubt very much that they will find this 'mystery man'”, I said. I felt strange about the case; not happy that I had allowed the act but resigned that there had been no other choice. After all Sherlock had killed to protect me, and I knew that he would do it again if my life came under threat.

Indeed he would. And did.

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	11. Interlude: Squaring The Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896: Some baronial musings.

_[Narration by Sir Edward Holmes, Baronet]_

I am growing increasingly concerned about my son Torver, who frankly was never that much of a human being to start with. But ever since he has joined the immodestly-named Greatness Club where the members are almost as narrow-minded as he himself is (it is a very small club), he has contrived to become even worse. If he lived his own life to the standards that he demands of everyone else then that might be well enough, but the Wife and I are both fully aware that he does not. Indeed, he does not so much fall short as fall over at the starting-line.

I had a visit from one of the most powerful ladies in London yesterday, Miss Clementine St. Leger who works for the Swordland's Information Agency of which my son Sherlock has sometimes spoken. She has I feel been instrumental in helping protect him in his dangerous career, and she informed me that Torver has started making threats towards his younger brother. Without exactly saying it she conveyed the message that she did not take kindly to such behaviour and that if it went too far then there would be Consequences. 

I do not think that I have shuddered quite that much since the wife did 'A Book At Bedtime', that collection of nursery rhyme stories. For adults!

I did suggest that Miss St. Leger might like to attend our next party but she said that she had only narrowly avoided two of my wife's stories of late, first by evading an invitation on grounds of urgent business and second when Sherlock, who can be a mischievous imp when the urge strikes, suggested that he might relate it to her. I am sure the boy was also behind arranging for Luke's lover's brother and half-brother to 'come round and wish him a Happy Christmas', which led to a horrible moment when what was left of poor Luke limped round to complain about how much he was hurting and, in what was for him a rare moment of utter stupidity, told the Wife all that had happened. He must have been really out of it; she insisted on taking down _all_ the details for another dreadful story but most fortunately I had an urgent telegram calling me away on business (I keep several on my writing-desk at all times, just in case). 

That reminds me; I do not think it was coincidence that Miss St. Leger just happened to call just moments after the wife had gone off to another meeting of her Coven.

I meant 'of her Writing Circle'.

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	12. Case 222: Captain Whitesmith's Last Adventure ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. In a case from the past that Sherlock had thought safely resolved, a chance sighting on Salisbury Plain threatens someone close to him. He and John travel back to Wiltshire to a slice of pastoral heaven that is, sadly, doomed to die.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Before describing this curious case, there were two small incidents after our dealings with the murderous yet righteous Mr. Raguel Truman. The first was of course John's birthday which was as Miss Thackeray teasingly called it his 'thirty-fourteenth' (that earned a seven on the Official Pout Scale). I decided to mark it with 'thirty-fourteen' chocolate rolls (all full-sized ones of course) and I ended up owing Miss St. Leger a box of jam cream fingers when her guess of his getting through thirty-five that day was slightly closer to the actual thirty-two than my twenty-eight. I also remembered to have some stomach powders to hand for the inevitable aftermath, although I doubted that medical science would ever come up with a cure for Pouting. 

_Not that it should even try!_

My present to John was a silver armlet that he had liked, with the design of a dragon in it (I frankly thought it hideous but he had loved it so that was that). Unfortunately the Fates had something else in store for him that January, in the form of an unexpected visitor to these shores.

The Pout was near a maximum ten as I returned to my chair after seeing off our guest. I did not think that I was smirking that much.

“So good of Doctor Kildare to drop by on his way to France”, I said innocently. “He hardly seems to have aged at all.”

There was definitely some grinding of teeth in there.

“The South of France”, he amended. “A long way away, thankfully.”

“He is a very pleasant young fellow”, I said. “He was a lot more polite than many of the people I have to deal with, who only want my professional services.”

“He wanted your professional services all right”, John grumbled. “Leering fellow.”

“You are not _jealous?_ ” I asked in mock surprise.

“No!” he said, far too quickly. “You are mine now!”

“I rather think that you are about to be mine again”, I said. “My room, bed, two minutes, you, naked.”

He gulped, then realized that I was pointedly looking at my watch and bolted for it. That jealousy of his needed seeing to.....

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The next day we had a visitor. Miss St. Leger looked warily around the room.

“I do not suppose that either of you have seen a costume that disappeared from when you were with me at the Historical Re-enactment this past weekend?” she asked. “A handmaiden's costume.”

I just grinned at her. She shook her head at me.

“Remember!” she said warningly. “I could cause a barley-sugar shortage overnight if I wanted to.”

“John would just go out into the country to get me some”, I said airily.

“I would ask where he is”, she smiled, “but I both know the answer to that question and so wish that I did not. Let us get down to business while I am only mildly traumatized!”

I thought that it had to have been important because first, she usually alerted Mrs. Malone to her arrival so that there might be some extra jam cream fingers on the cake-stand, and second.... well, there was probably some other reason.

“Your pest of a brother Randall wanted me to investigate something for him”, she said. “As the concept of actually asking for rather than demanding help is alien to him, I introduced him to another alien concept called the word 'no', and followed that up with a swift left to the jaw when he still did not get it.”

“I so hope that you did not hurt him”, I said flatly.

“I have heard politicians do better than that!” she said scornfully. “Luckily for your brother he learned his manners before I had to move onto the next lesson and kick him in the unmentionables. I did however then make some inquiries into what he had been about to ask me, and that it what brings me here today. It concerns Captain Dante Whitesmith†.”

I froze at that name, and she must have seen my shock. Surely that particular hornet's nest had been safely neutralized?

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In the notes I wrote to cover my actions during the painful Great Hiatus I mentioned two small instances that had merited my attentions, the second of which had concerned my half-brother the dying Lord Theobald Hawke. There was however a third matter related to my visit to his Wiltshire home which I had not covered, partly because the family involved still had several relatives alive whose welfare had to be taken into consideration. It concerned one of the most flamboyant characters of Late Victorian England, Captain Dante Whitesmith.

As John said, my cousin Luke (in between persisting in traumatizing me with details of his 'sexploits' with the irrepressible Benji – seriously, where did the boy get his stamina? - had arranged for John to have a secretary to deal with the initially heavy flow of letters that had continued to come into Baker Street. That had continued up to his publication of the events surrounding my 'death' and then tailed off, but unbeknown to him the secretary had also been provided with a list of names from whom letters were to be forwarded to Luke and then to me (this was how I 'solved' the problem of LeStrade's annoying neighbour). One of those names was Whitesmith, which although I have never mentioned it before was very dear to me.

Major William Whitesmith had been a contemporary of my half-brother the ill-stared Lord Tobias Hawke, a fellow of the same age whose family had grown up on the Brunton estate of the Hawke family, Indeed it had been the major who had brought me my half-brother's deer-stalker hat pipe both of which I so cherished. Because of that I had always kept an eye out for the Whitesmiths, so despite the untimeliness of their encountering a problem just as I was dealing with Mr. Kurt Moriarty's threat to my beloved's life, I had still answered the call even if I had to go through Luke to do it. I had never told John about it because.... well, my re-appearance in John's life had come only two days after my return from Wiltshire and I had had other things on my mind. Mostly making up for lost time!

Captain Dante Whitesmith was Major William's second son, some thirty years of age at the time and the archetypal Victorian explorer right down to the curled moustache. His problem had been decidedly unusual but I had been able to deal with it. Or I had thought that I had, but now there was another problem.

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My mind flicked back to the present. Miss St. Leger nodded at me.

“Yes, a rare instance of a solved case rising from the dead”, she said. “Like yourself – and possibly Captain Dante Whitesmith!”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“As you and I arranged, he disappeared doing a solo crossing of some desert over between China and India”, she said. “That was last year; they did a thorough search but the area where he vanished was terrible so they had to give up. That it seemed was that; his family held a memorial service for him and it made the national papers. You did not tell the doctor about it?”

“I was very pleasurably engaged in certain other matters then and now”, I smiled. “Like you and Randall, which was I am sure very pleasurable jaw-breaking.”

“A lady never tells!” she smiled, “and if you feel any urge to make a comment along the lines of 'what lady?', bear in mind how easily I could cut off your coffee and bacon supplies as well! Unfortunately last month someone claimed to have seen the captain alive, jogging around Salisbury Plain!”

“Close up?” I asked anxiously.

“They were driving across the Plain and saw him cross the road heading towards a place called Heytesbury”, she said. “As you know he is comfortably settled in nearby Imber where his ‘body’ is buried, but unless this is dealt with quickly then the newspapers are going to start digging. It would not take them long to find the truth.”

I had a sudden thought.

“Why did Randall not approach me directly?” I wondered. 

She grimaced for some reason.

“What?” I asked.

“Your Mother had him round last week to remind him about his manners again”, she said. “Also your father – well, her husband – is a bastard of the first order.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because she wanted him to listen to more of her stories but he said that his deafness was back again, so she should make your brother sit and listen instead”, she said. “'The French Connection', a short story about someone who misused models of the Eiffel Tower...”

I gave her such a look!

“John and I will sort this”, I said, wincing inwardly at having to admit to keeping another secret from my love. “I think that Heytesbury would be a good place to start.”

“And then on to Imber‡”, she said. “Heytesbury has a station on the Salisbury to Warminster line so it is easy to get to. You will be going today?”

“Definitely!” I said. “I shall also need that list of actors you have – with the one who most closely resembles a certain Captain Whitesmith.”

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Some time later John emerged and limped over to his chair. His face when he saw the still steaming chocolate pudding (with custard!) was a wonder to behold. I let him finish it before I spoke.

“Randall wanted to ask Miss St. Leger to investigate one Captain Dante Whitesmith”, I said.

He grunted and as he always did stared wistfully at the empty dish, in the hope that maybe this was the one time when the vanished dessert might magically reappear. I really hoped not; the shock might well kill him!

“Where did she hit the pest?” he sighed when it did not.

He really was becoming a cynic in his old age, and the fact that he was right (again) was neither here nor there. 

“Someone claims to have seen the captain jogging across Salisbury Plain”, I said. “A year after he was reported missing presumed dead in China.”

“Like poor Mr. Elijah Sexton”, he said. “Seen alive after he was dead, then dead.”

I took a deep breath.

“He is alive and well.”

He stared at me curiously. For all that he was no detective he knew me very well, and he very quickly put two and two together.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

“Just before the dispatch of Mr. Kurt Moriarty”, I said, “I received a call from a friend of my real father. Major William Whitesmith was the fellow who brought me poor Lord Toby's deer-stalker and pipe, so I was always close to them. He wrote to me with a problem. He had thought his second son Dante to have been happily married and settled into a family life only for the boy – I should not call him that as he is thirty now – to try to take his own life. Only the watchfulness of his batman, a fellow called Marriott, stopped him.”

John frowned.

“He married Lady Cheryl Bellaris”, he said. “It was a very prominent wedding.”

For once I did not tease him about his interest in the social pages. I was just grateful that he was taking this so well. 

“He seemed to have had it all but this Marriott told Major Whitesmith that his son had hated his life”, I said. “I encountered Mrs. Whitesmith and I could see why; she was terrible and clearly only in the marriage for the money and prestige! So I arranged it all for her husband. He and Marriott went on an expedition to a dangerous part of the Himalayas, then Marriott reported that his master had gone out one day and had failed to come back. In fact Captain Whitesmith had slipped back to England. Marriott had received some money in his will and continued on to the United States, which he crossed and reached England that way.”

“I am surprised that the captain was able to conceal himself so well in this day and age”, John said.

“His village of Imber is miles from anywhere, so he should have been quite safe”, I sighed. Particularly as there is a gravestone with his name on it in the local churchyard. But unfortunately he was seen out running recently, so we need to make him vanish for a second time.”

He nodded but said no more. As I have said many a time before he really was far too good for me. I might even let him keep all his bacon tomorrow morning....

I said _might!_

“We should go down to Wiltshire today”, I said. “Miss St. Leger surely has an actor on her lists who can pass as the Captain, and who can be seen by several people there with his own identity having been in the area at the time of the sighting. Are you capable of moving yet?”

He pouted, far too adorably as per usual.

“Of course!” he said scornfully.

“I would not be too sure”, I grinned. “We still have that handmaiden costume from the weekend, remember?”

He suddenly went very pale. He had very correctly foreseen that his evening ahead was going to be.... difficult.

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I did not smirk when John fell asleep as our cab made the short trip to Paddington, nor when I had to help him out of the vehicle at Brunel's great terminus. I did not even smirk when I suggested a sit-down on a hard station bench and he looked at me as if I had lost my mind. If I did maybe smile ever so slightly when he also fell asleep for most of the journey down to Warminster then he did not see it so he could not complain. Or even worse, pout in such a way that would make the journey back to London even more.... difficult.

From Warminster it was but a short trip to Heytesbury, a pleasant little village in the Wylye Valley which reminded me of a famous painting that John had shown me in the National Gallery a few months back. It had shown a typical village scene with three young men in the foreground clearly full of big ideas and planning to leave their humble little birth-place while three old men sat outside the pub in the afternoon sun, and John had quipped that fifty years from now the three young men would themselves be dozing outside the pub and rolling their eyes at the youth of today and their big plans.

As I said, utterly cynical - _but so often correct!_

After asking around about the sighting of the captain, two things very quickly became clear. First, the villagers all said that they had seen neither hide nor hair of the fellow since he had left the area to make his name, and second, most of them were pretty good liars.

“They know”, John said once we were alone. “And they are ready to protect their own.”

“I shall arrange for a journalist friend of mine to follow our actor friend down here tomorrow”, I said. “Once it has been confirmed that the supposed sighting of the dead captain was just that, the story will disappear.”

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Because of the atmosphere of suspicion in the village we decided that, reluctantly, we could not share a bed in the inn that we had booked ourselves into. Fortunately we were to be subject to only one night's bad sleep for the newspapers the following day were full of the latest sensational development in the Captain Whitesmith case.

John looked at me across a mound of bacon that somehow seemed to have gravitated to my plate.

“Is this what you were planning?” he asked.

The news that day concerned the shocking confession of Mr. Samuel Marriott, Captain Whitesmith's valet. Contrary to what had been claimed the captain had contracted some horrible wasting disease, and had begged his servant to make sure that he was buried in his favourite village of Imber rather than the family vault at nearby Trowbridge. The only way to achieve this, both men had decided, was to spread the story about the captain vanishing so that his body could be smuggled home to Imber and buried there in secret. The grave was marked only with a plain wooden cross but Marriott had, as he had been asked to do, placed the regimental badge from the captain's cap in the centre of the cross.

“Yes”, I said. “And tomorrow we can put to bed this sighting of a dead man.”

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We hired two horses and set off for Imber. I know that Victorian painters have a lot to answer for when it comes to portraying pastoral life as charming and carefree, but this village really was beautiful, isolated miles from anywhere in the middle of the featureless Plain. St. Giles's Church was also quite charming, and we found the late explorer's grave easily enough. It was at the back of the churchyard under an old yew, looking down across the little dean in which the village was set.

“He wanted peace”, I said. “After today he should finally get it.”

I led the way out of the churchyard and down into the village. It was a compact little place and we made our way to a small cottage on the road north. John was clearly annoyed but held his peace, although he was visibly bursting with impatience to know what I knew. I led the way and knocked at the door. After a long pause it was opened by a dark-haired fellow with glasses wearing a dressing-gown and pyjamas, who looked at me and baulked.

“Hullo again, Captain!”

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Even with the moustache gone and his hair cut short, there was no mistaking the explorer. 

“Dan?”

A second figure appeared behind him. A very naked figure; Samuel Marriott, faithful servant and, from the closeness with which he was holding his master, rather more. He was a shade taller, hirsute to the point of being ursine and much more solid that his friend, although they were of the same age. The batman smiled in welcome.

“Once this goof has stopped imitating the hat-stand”, he grinned, “you had better come in.”

The explorer glared at him but there was no force in it, especially after Mr. Marriott pulled him down for a kiss before looking pointedly at us both.

“I cannot cure the fellow of his aversion to clothing”, the explorer sighed. “Even in this climate.”

“Saves time when it comes to the important things in life”, Mr. Marriott grinned, pouring us both drinks. “And it gives that nosy bat Mrs. Selwood over the street a chance to use those binoculars she bought!”

His friend shook his head at him but smiled.

“How is it going?” the explorer asked.

“Let them catch their breath, for heaven's sake Dan”, Mr. Marriott said reprovingly. He handed us our drinks, then sat pointedly next to his lover who he manhandled in between his legs. The poor explorer was bright red by this time but did not move away.

“Very well”, I said, smiling at the obvious love between the two. “The London newspapers tomorrow will be reporting how an athlete called Mr. Tobias George, on holiday in this fair county, was nearly run down by someone who shouted at him that he was really the lost explorer Captain Dante Whitesmith. Fortunately he approached the detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes who was able to sort matters for him. I also spoke to your father, sir, and explained matters to him.”

“I wish that we could have trusted my elder brother Dean as well”, he said, “but for all that he is a good fellow he cannot keep a secret. Sammy!”

“It's the necrophile in me!” his batman grinned shamelessly. “I love holding dead people!”

“Father was wonderful over the whole thing”, the explorer sighed. “He blamed himself for pushing me into marriage, and we could not have done this and kept him in the dark.”

“Dan likes the dark”, his friend smiled. “I can surprise him more easily!”

He nuzzled his friend's muscular neck, earning himself a contented sigh.

“It is a pleasure to see you so well settled”, I said. “We shall spend another day in Heytesbury making sure that the story of your death is confirmed, although I am sure that most of the people there know the truth anyway.”

“We are blessed in these parts”, the captain agreed.

“And I am blessed with his parts!” his batman grinned.

He really was terrible! I liked him.

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Imber really was a beautiful place, and it was with some sadness that we left it to ride back to Heytesbury and the train to London the following evening. Also those words of the brave explorer who found true happiness stuck in my memory, for some years later I would once again consider the possibility of retiring one day – although it would take close to the death of the man that I loved to get me there.

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_Notes:_   
_† Named for a craftsman who does finishing work on iron and steel items, such as filing, lathing, burnishing or polishing._   
_‡ Sadly, Imber is now a ghost village. In the 1920s the government began buying up land around the village and slowly forcing farmers out, then in World War Two the village itself was requisitioned for army training particularly in practising for D-Day. The villagers were promised that they could return once the war was over, but like so many government promises this turned out to be a lie. Every building except the church was torn down and replaced with bombed out houses, and the government even tried to lose the paperwork containing their promises to avoid paying compensation (they failed but it took many decades to bring them to justice, and many of those who should have been paid compensation died in the interim). St. Giles's Church still stands and hosts occasional services on days when the remains of the village are open to viewing but Imber is in truth no more, yet another sad monument to the mendacity and cupidity of modern government._

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	13. Case 223: The Adventure Of The Falkland Islander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. Why would Sherlock's irritating lounge-lizard of a brother be interested in some fellow visiting England from a distant minor Imperial possession? Sherlock assumes the worst and, as it is Randall, he is predictably right!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Although I usually shun history as the driest of dry subjects, the historical background of what was involved here proved to play a major role in the actions of the actors in this small drama. Besides John has written it all up for me and he is always so happy when I praise him for his hard work. Sometimes I even wear my deer-stalker (one of the three that I keep for daily use; never of course Lord Tobias's precious gift to me which is safely tucked inside the special pear-wood box that John bought me for it), and he loves it when I take him wearing just that and sometimes even 'smoking' one of my 'spare' pipes.... 

Ahem! Back to the story.

The Falkland Islands are two fair-sized islands, the larger of which is East Falkland at around 2,500 square miles in area (about the size of Devonshire or the American state of Delaware). It is home to the capital Stanley, often but erroneously called Port Stanley. Then there is West Falkland at 1,750 square miles, and finally a smattering of much smaller islands in their vicinity. The population of this fair-sized area is but a few thousand at most and the climate is, in John's words, bloody freezing!

The islands lie about three hundred miles from the coast of South America and the country of Argentina which lays claim to them on spurious grounds, presumably to distract their peoples from the rampant misgovernment that so much of their continent is subject to. Great Britain also owns other island groups (nearly all uninhabited) stretching down towards Antarctica, namely South Georgia, the South Sandwich Islands, the South Orkneys and the South Shetlands; I had to agree with John that the people who chose names for these places were clearly not blessed with much in the way of imagination! These outlying island groups are all tiny; even if they were all folded together they would be smaller in area than West Falkland. Seal-hunting is the only business of note that happens in the area although efforts to establish whaling stations are, John says, ongoing. He is such a mine of information, a mine that I love to delve into on a regular basis... ahem!

Despite efforts to establish sheep-farming and ship-repair as alternative industries on the main islands they had never been that successful, and their only real use in the past was as a British coaling port for ships rounding Cape Horn. Relations with Argentina had however warmed after she had dropped her claim in an 1850 treaty with our Nation and ships could get cheaper coal more easily on the mainland so even this use was denied the Falklanders. One wonders if that was not a political move to render the islands not worth having to London, for several in government had begun to openly ask as to whether they were really worth the effort of maintaining and might not be quietly left to their own devices or even leased to Argentina – in other words effectively abandoned as our colony in the Mosquito Coast (in Central America) had so unwisely been.

Until along came Mr. Pheidippides Jones.

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This case came to our attention through the efficient offices of Miss St. Leger, although not perhaps in the way that one might have expected. She called round one day to find me alone in our rooms, and looked around curiously almost as if she expected John to be hiding under one of the chairs.

“He is resting”, I said. “Although not for the reasons you are doubtless thinking, my lady!”

“Why, what would those be, kind sir?” she asked with an innocence that I did not believe for one moment.

“He had a call to a patient whose pregnancy he had been attending and whose baby decided to grace this world with its presence some three weeks too early”, he said. “An exhaustive affair but after dithering for nearly two whole days the mite came through it, perhaps better than poor John. He had to take a nap at the new mother's house before coming home, then it was a good meal and straight to bed for him.”

“Remind me what someone once said about a certain doctor having too much of a mother-hen tendency?” she said, smiling.

I shook my head at her impudence.

“What brings you to 221B this fine day?” I asked. The weather had improved a little since our last case had been resolved but London in winter was still not a place for those with faint hearts or thin clothing.

“It is a little odd”, she said, frowning. “I have not been asked to look into someone.”

I thought for a moment that I had misheard her, but apparently not.

“You are concerned because you did not get the business?” I asked. She shook her head.

“There are as you know several other information agencies like Swordland's”, she said. “None anywhere near as good of course, but some are all right. We do not usually have much to do with them but yesterday Paul Gaston, the head of one of them, asked me if I had been requested to look into a gentleman by the name of Mr. Pheidippides Jones.”

The name meant nothing to me except to possibly hint that said gentleman's parents had read one too many Greek works. I waited for further illumination.

“He is a representative of the Falkland Islands Company which all but runs that territory for the Empire”, she said. “Paul was concerned because he knows the heads of two of the other organizations and they had both also been asked to make inquiries into the unusually-named gentleman.”

“So? I said. “Someone might just be being thorough.”

She shook her head.

“You do not survive for long in this business if you cannot smell a rat”, she said. “The description of the person asking was the same in each case, even though they gave a different name each time, and each said that the cologne was pungent. I would wager that your oily brother with the slappable face is behind this.”

I saw her point at once.

“You believe that the fact Randall did not send to the premier agency in such things was because he knew of your friendship with me?” I asked. She nodded.

“It is the sort of slimy thing that he _would_ do”, she said. “I made some initial inquiries myself but thus far I have found out little, although there is of course the obvious.”

“Mr. Jones's travel schedule?” I ventured. She nodded again.

“I know that it is summer in the Falkland Isles but even going up the coasts of Africa and Europe, winter in the North Atlantic is horrible”, she said. “He could have had a much easier journey by waiting just a couple of months. I cannot see what business he has in London that would necessitate such urgency. His company is not in any sort of financial difficulty as far as I can gather.”

“A personal trip?” I suggested.

“That was the other thing I thought suspicious”, she said. “He has relatives in South Wales and he got off the ship when it called at Plymouth rather than taking it all the way to London.”

“Did he go and visit them?” I asked.

“I do not know”, she admitted, “but given the time that he reached the city I do not think so. If he did it can have been but for an hour, two at most. That seems very unlikely after such a long journey. Besides they were only distant cousins.”

“I can name several relatives of mine for whom an hour or two would in itself be far too long”, I said dryly. “My dear mother requires only seconds before she is prone to getting out her latest efforts at fiction, one of which she sent to me recently. 'Home And Away', it concerns Julius Caesar and King Nicomedes the Fourth of Bithynia...”

She was giving me such a look! I chuckled at her.

“You believe that this Mr. Jones reasoned his arrival might be noted before the ship could reach London, and so took a train to evade any attempts to stop him?”

“Given the homicidal tendencies of some in government these days as that 'Friesland' case clearly showed, I fear he may have been right to do just that”, she said. “But why is he here in the first place?”

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We discussed the matter some little more but could make neither head nor tale of it, though we both felt that there might be developments soon enough which could show things in a clearer light. Miss St. Leger eventually left and I returned to a fascinating science book on some recent discoveries that John had purchased for me. 

I had been reading for about an hour before I heard the sounds of his awakening at last. I smiled to myself and waited for what I was almost certain would happen next. Sure enough there was a quite inventive profanity which I shall not repeat here save to say that had he said it outside this room it would have had Mrs. Malone reaching for her pistol (and likely Miss Thackeray reaching for a notebook and pencil!). I waited.

After what seemed like an interminable wait but which the grandfather clock in the corner stated to be less than five minutes, John poked his bare shoulders around the door.

“Are you serious?” he demanded. “I mean, really?”

“The best things come in well-wrapped packages”, I said with s smile. “Out you come.”

He was blushing fiercely but obeyed, emerging into the main room. Naked except for the one item of apparel he was wearing. A small black underwear item that, I had been told, was called a 'thong'. It barely concealed his manhood which was clearly determined to test it to the utmost. He looked _mortified!_

(I took a quiet moment to reflect on the fact that if he ever learned that our Cornish ex-fisherman friend Lowen had suggested this to me then I would likely be investigating the latter's murder, and even more likely be trying to cover up John's role in it). 

“Delicious!” I said as he walked awkwardly across to his chair. He contrived to go even redder.

“Can I put my clothes back on?” he asked.

“No.”

He looked at me, and I knew when he finally got it from the way he went from red to white.

“I am going to have you in that all day”, I growled, knowing how when I lowered my voice it turned him on even more. “I am going to be able to have my way with you even more quickly, whenever and wherever I so desire. John, I really, _really_ desire!”

He froze and I knew from his face just what had happened. I smirked.

“Let us see how many times I can make you do that today”, I said happily. “One.”

He whined in terror.

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Apparently it was indeed possible to make one specific _homo sapiens_ come five times in a single day without even touching him. But because I loved him so much for giving me the unmitigated pleasure of having his body on display all day, I rewarded him with the chocolate cake that I had got for him the day before. The only other price I would have to pay would be the knowing looks from Mrs. Malone as to why her maids had been asked to leave our meals outside and to not clean our rooms that day. 

John's only regret, he said once his ordeal was over, that he had so wrecked the item after our wondrous game that he would be unable to wear it under his ordinary clothes the following day. I smiled as I thought of the eight other thongs in his drawer, ready and waiting. One of each and every colour available including the one designed like a Union Jack. Technological progress was wonderful at times!

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There was no reason for John to walk any differently as we strode around Regent's Park the following morning. At least no reason apart from the green thong that he was currently wearing.

We were on our way back to Baker Street when we ran into Miss St. Leger, sporting a virulent light-blue boiler-suit that was drawing looks of disapprobation from many of her fellow promenaders. 

“I hoped to catch you”, she said, looking far too knowingly at John and smiling slightly. “When you get back home you are going to find a visitor. A highly slappable-faced brother of yours.”

John groaned at that. I could empathize.

“What will he be after this time?” I sighed.

“Our Mr. Jones made himself an appointment at the Argentinian Embassy this morning”, she said. “He is up to something, and your resident headache-producer will want to know what.”

“Do you know?” I asked.

“I have suspicions”, she said, “but when it comes to governments I have to get my facts one hundred per cent right before I start throwing around accusations. As we both know from more than one of your cases, people who upset those in power do not tend to do well.”

“The government would not dare to take you on?” I asked, shocked.

“Some might be stupid enough”, she said, shrugging her shoulders as if facing the possibility of state-sponsored murder was all part of the job. “They would of course regret it – I have made arrangements to make sure of that – but I would rather that they were never tested. Not that that sort of thing has changed much since that monster King Henry the Eighth.”

I was surprised. I had thought Miss St. Leger shared my general disinterest in history except when it was relevant to an inquiry.

“You know”, she said. “That nursery rhyme about his wives and his eating habits... what was it? Oh yes. Sing a.... _Thong_ Of Sixpence!”

She walked off chuckling. Poor John looked mortified!

“I think some coffees and a visit to Branksome's for one of their delicious cakes before we face my irritating sibling”, I suggested.

When he looked at me with such gratitude... well..... no, we were in a Royal Park and now was neither the time nor the place for such things.

Later, definitely!

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Walking back to the house with one cake-filled doctor, I wondered if even my idiotic brother would really be foolish enough to try anything to remove Mr. Pheidippides Jones. Not that he would not want to if the man was somehow 'in the way', but after the recent family upheavals Mother had made patently clear that if either he, Mycroft or Torver made one more step out of line then she would be at best Bloody Furious or, as our sister Anna called it, a Level Nine. It might even go higher up the scale.

On a totally unrelated issue, I wondered if Randall had any life insurance. Probably not – after all, who would mourn _his_ passing? Cologne manufacturers apart, I supposed.

“I do not see what you want of me in this matter”, I said at last after my brother had spent the best part of ten minutes saying nothing while I had drank my coffee and John had tried to stare our unpleasant visitor into leaving. Although the way in which he always looked so mournfully into the empty Branksome's bag was so damn cute that I wanted to....

_Later!_

“The fellow Jones is up to something!” Randall scowled. “I want you to find out what.”

“What can I do about it even if he is 'up to something'?” I asked.

“Leave that to the experts”, he said primly.

“Friesland!” John coughed into his hand. Randall scowled at him.

“That was not my doing”, he said curtly. 

“Mr. Jones probably thinks you want to sell his beloved islands to Argentina!” John scoffed.

“Like we could do that!” Randall sniffed.

I narrowed my eyes at him. I had used sophistry too many times myself not to be able to spot it being used by someone else. I could see Randall looking ever so slightly alarmed at my attentions but I decided to let it pass. Or at least to let him think that way.

“I will make some urgent inquiries into this Mr. Jones”, I said. “Indeed, I shall start immediately.”

He looked surprised at my easy compliance but nodded curtly and left without any thanks. Not that I expected any.

“Do you think that this Mr. Jones _is_ up to something?” John asked.

“Yes”, I said. “And I think that I begin to see what. He may turn out to be one of our most cunning adversaries yet.”

He looked at me in surprise.

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John set off to post the telegram that I actually wished to send while I went to the post-office in Baker Street and dispatched some inconsequential ones that I was fairly sure would bring little in the way or response except to make my pest of a brother panic when he read them. I also distrusted him not to have me followed and to make sure that I was doing as I had said I would, as he would have been suspicious of my easy compliance to his request. Rightly so – but he would find that out too late for it to be of any use.

Sure enough Miss St. Leger replied to John's message shortly after luncheon. It was regrettably what I had expected, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the sad predictability of governments of any party. I dispatched a telegram to Randall that said that I would have something for him by early on Sunday morning and he might call round then. There was absolutely no need for someone in the vicinity to remark that certain consulting detectives were not really morning people. I was not that bad of a morning.

Someone who is going to regret it has just reminded me of the time I contrived to scare myself by looking in the mirror B.C. (Before Coffee). That had been one and only one morning! 

Is he holding up three fingers? He is, the bastard!

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Randall arrived at nine o' clock on the Sabbath (he had obviously been waiting outside beforehand but after that incident when Mrs. Malone had brought her pistol out he knew not to knock before his time). He came up the stairs clearly seething and sat down heavily in the fireside chair before scowling at us both.

“This is a disaster of the first magnitude!” he fumed.

I suppose that his anger was understandable, for once. The newspapers from the 'Times' downwards were all leading with the discovery that the British government had been involved in a secret plan to grant the Falkland Islanders independence, and then to raise only the mildest of protests when the Argentinians invaded and seized them before the inexplicably delayed British military support arrived and decided not to risk an engagement. It was a political embarrassment of the first order for Lord Salisbury's minority Conservative-Unionist government which would be badly shaken as a result.

“The government are pinning the whole blame on my department, would you believe?” Randall fumed.

“Yes, it is hardly as if _you_ would ever do such a devious and underhand thing like that”, I said mildly. John snorted for some reason and Randall glared at him too.

“I do not know how they got wind of this”, he growled. “There were no official records; I was sure of that.”

“Would you like to know?” I asked mildly.

He stared at me in shock.

“You did not!” he protested. “Sherlock!”

“I find the government's actions in this matter indefensible”, I said firmly. “There may not be many people living on those windblown and distant islands but they are as much British citizens as someone living on the Isle of Wight. The government had no right to sell them down the river, as the saying goes. But no, Randall, I was not the author of your discomfiture – at least not this time. Would you like to meet the gentleman who was?”

He nodded dumbly. I smiled and walked across to John's bedroom door.

“Please to come through”, I said.

A short and generally unprepossessing gentleman entered the room. He was short, dark-haired, about forty years of age and appeared very much the atypical bank clerk. But appearances were in this case very much deceptive.

 _“You!”_ my brother exclaimed in horror. I caught John hiding a grin in his writings.

“Randall, meet Mr. Pheidippides Jones”, I said. “Aptly named for the ancient marathon runner as he has crossed some eight thousand miles of ocean to totally outplay you at every turn.”

“What do you mean?” my brother demanded. 

“The Falkland Islands Company rightly distrusted the British government, no matter what party was nominally in charge of it”, I said. “So they established certain what are called 'plants', people who would alert them of any dark dealings afoot. Not of course in London; they knew the likes of you too well to attempt such a thing let alone the problems over distance. No, they planted their agents much closer to home in the Argentinian government where the greater degree of chaos and disorganization made avoiding detection much easier. When these agents became aware of your plans to betray them, they immediately dispatched Mr. Jones here to stop you.”

“Just how was he going to do that?” my brother sneered.

I shook my head at him.

“For someone who claims to be so intelligent you really are stupid at times, Randall”, I said. “After this blizzard of publicity, no government would _dare_ to have even the smallest agreement with Argentina for fears of being branded traitors and everyone saying 'so those stories were true, then'. This gentleman has as I said totally outplayed you and I doff my hat to him. You have lost.”

My brother glared angrily at Mr. Jones.

“We will alert the Argentinians”, he said coldly, “and I am sure that they will flush out your so-called agents soon enough.”

“You will do no such thing”, Mr. Jones said equably.

I do not know how he managed it but despite his tatterdemalion appearance there was a note of absolute certainty in his voice. Even my brother looked surprised at it.

“And how do you intend to stop me, _sir?”_ he asked haughtily.

Mr. Jones sighed.

“We did not undertake the defence of our dear islands without covering _every_ eventuality”, he said calmly. “Even your foul, unpleasant self, Mr. Randall Holmes. You may indeed choose to leave here and go tattle to our neighbours back home – but if you do, please be assured that within a very few days there will be a further major government scandal to light up the front pages. It will concern a house in a rather questionable part of Fulham, a lady of more than moderate social standing who is a dear acquaintance of your dear mother, a baby – _and you!”_

His quarry went deathly pale, although he managed to glare at John who was muttering 'Fulham, questionable, mother, lounge-lizard, baby...'. Randall spared us all one last hateful glance and left in a flurry of bad cologne. John looked across at our more welcome guest.

“Can we keep him?” he asked eagerly.

I shook my head at him. He was so bad!

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_Author's Note: It was a series of weak moves by successive British governments in the 1970s and early 1980s that led in 1982 to the Argentinian assault on the Falklands and their brief occupation of the islands before they were turfed out. Yet even today there are some who say that this democracy thing is all very well but it should only be extended to 'those who deserve it' – and of course they can tell us who they are (hint: anyone who agrees with them)._

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	14. Case 224: The Adventure Of The Classy Writer ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. Another of those small cases that was seemingly unimportant yet everything to the people involved, and which made the great detective famous for his approach to accepting cases regardless of the client's social status or sense of self-importance. An old friend is puzzled as to why his son has been rejected from a prestigious university, and Sherlock has to use devious means to overcome some class prejudice.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Nearly all of my cases were 'after the fact'; in other words some wrong had been done and it was up to me to clean up the resulting mess and to deliver justice as best I could. In a very few instances such as famous Sign Of The Four, I had the chance to prevent an injustice, and in this case which took over a month and spanned three other cases before its resolution, I also managed that. As several of those who wrote to us observed the list of our cases was not always linear, but I have placed the notes I made for this case around the date at which it was successfully concluded.

It was shortly before the unravelling of the Abergavenny Case that we received an unexpected but most welcome visitor to Baker Street. Mr. Aneurin Peters, better known to readers of the 'Strand' magazine as 'Aunt Aneira' who was still answering letters from people across the Three Kingdoms over two decades after the original Aunt Aneira had died. John and I had helped smooth the transition (The Adventure Of The Welsh Wordsmith) and it had turned out that a young Welsh miner was just as good as an elderly l Welsh lady at sorting everyone's problems out. Now thirty-nine years of age, Mr. Peters had become so successful that he had been able to cease his mining job and move his family into a better house not far from Resolven in Glamorganshire where we had met him fourteen years ago. He was still thin and slight of build, but he looked a lot better than when we had met him in that tiny cottage back in Resolven.

“It is good to see you again”, I said as we all sat down. “Especially so soon after your success in the 'Times'.”

Our guest blushed at the praise.

“Lord Fontwell was not pleased”, he said, “but he deserved it. And the magazine stood by me through it all, which I have to say was a relief.”

Shortly before Christmas 'Aunt Aneira' had published a most forthright letter in response to a young nobleman who had written complaining about how dreadfully slow servants were these days, and that one had quite literally to kick them up the backside to get them to do anything. Mr. Peters, who was a most intelligent fellow, had realized from various clues in the anonymous letter just who had written it and had penned a blazing condemnation of the fellow in response, which the magazine had originally been reluctant to publish until he had written to them explaining who 'Q.P.F.' was. The nobleman had muttered about taking legal action but unfortunately for him (and with maybe just a little help from a certain consulting detective) this had drawn the attention of the Thunderer, which had made great play with the story. Not all publicity is a good thing, as Lord Fontwell had found out the hard way. He was currently away sulking on his Scottish estates and waiting for the mess that he himself had created to die down.

“Pray what brings you to London?” I asked.

Our visitor sighed.

“I was hoping you might be able to do something for my son Huwel”, he said. “He's eighteen now and wishes to study English at university, after which he wants to become a teacher.”

John looked surprised at that, as was I. We could both see the obvious there.

“Did he not wish to study in Wales?” I asked. “I do not know the reputation of Cardiff's university but I would have thought it a lot nearer.”

“Huw submitted an essay to them as part of his application”, our visitor said. “I read it – I didn't tell him as he would've been mortified, poor boy – but I thought it was brilliant the way he described life down the mines. They rejected it.”

I looked at him shrewdly.

“You believe that they rejected it because of the background of the writer rather than the content of the essay”, I said. “Is that the essay that you have in your case there?”

“Yes”, he said. “I brought the other one as well, though Huw says he'll soon need it to apply elsewhere.”

“If you leave it with me I can have it copied and then forward the original to you at your new address”, I said. “You can tell your son that he will have it back in a few days at most. But I would ask him not to apply elsewhere just yet.”

“Why not?” our guest asked.

I smiled knowingly.

“Because I am going to see if our esteemed universities really are judging a book by its cover!” I said.

I looked across at John just in time to catch the eye-roll that I knew would be coming. He gulped, and I narrowed my eyes at him warningly. He knew that any smart remarks nowadays always resulted in Consequences for certain parts of his anatomy, much as he may or may not have enjoyed said Consequences.

“I would however like to know one more thing”, I said, smiling at a certain doctor's notable shudder. “If your son had a free choice, say of any university in this country, which one would he like to attend.”

Mr. Peters frowned at that.

“He told me London”, he said, “but I know that's 'cause he thinks he's not good enough for somewhere like Oxford or Cambridge. 'Specially after he got rejected by the likes of Cardiff.”

“Ask him to refrain from applying anywhere for a couple of weeks”, I told him, “and I will see what I can do.”

Our guest smiled, visibly relieved.

“Thank you, sir.”

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John too looked relieved when I said that I was going out for a while but would not be long. He looked a little less relieved when I told him that I expected to return and find him naked and waiting for me on my bed. 

I might have thought that my love could not have looked any more nervous, but when I entered his room as naked as he was and he saw what I was wearing he went even redder.

“Where the blazes did you get that?” he demanded, looking at the miner's helmet complete with goggles that I was wearing. I grinned.

“I went to 'That Shop'”, I grinned. “I saw this among their costumes some time back but the visit of dear 'Aunt Aneira' reminded me of it and I thought, what better time to do some deep mining into a rich vein?”

He shuddered but dutifully raised his legs. I carefully positioned myself between his legs – he was rock-hard already, I noted with pleasure – and positioned my other purchase at his entrance. He moaned again as I applied the cock-ring that he had not noticed tied next to the (working) lamp, then nearly leaped off the bed when I began to work in the pleasurer that I had also brought.

“Wha... what the hell is that?” he gasped.

“For the ultimate digging experience”, I grinned. “The Drill. It opens up the recipient quickly and efficiently so that the 'heavy equipment' can be brought to bear.”

It was amazing, I thought as my love moaned and writhed beneath me, that the supposedly staid Victorians had come up something like this, especially as it was very clearly aimed at men rather than women. John was leaking pre-come but the ring held as his sufferings only intensified with every inch of drilling. As always we both knew that a certain signal would have me stop immediately, but he clearly wanted to see how far he could go. I grinned and worked the Drill around for a time then slowly extracted it before pushing in myself. His face wreathed in a smile as we coupled, and his back arched as he accepted me to where I truly belonged.

Then I began to fuck him, deliberately aiming for his prostate. He did not know but the ring holding him back was one of those designed to give slowly, and as he came apart his come erupted between us in his final and gloriously long release. Finally be lay broken and happy beneath me and I took my pleasure in his sated body, holding back for as long as I could until I claimed him once more as mine and only mine.

“Wow!” he gasped. “Mining. Good.”

I grinned at his exhaustion. I was sure that there were more 'seams' in there that needed opening up......

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The ever-efficient Miss St. Leger was able to recommend me an excellent secretarial company which, in barely a day, had produced over forty copies of both Mr. Huwel Peters's essays. It was expensive but necessary to have them couriered to various universities in Oxford and Cambridge, including Bonaventure where we had recently solved the matter of the Three Students. I may or may not have been strictly truthful in the covering letter I enclosed with each one, with the exception of Mr. Wisdom at Bonaventure since having met him I suspected might be more even-handed in his approach.

I also ordered John two of Branksome's Super Deluxe Chocolate Slices which, once he was able to walk, he gratefully devoured, definitely not cooing with happiness when he saw that Mrs. Malone had heated them for him and added some of her excellent chocolate custard.

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In late January as has been mentioned we decamped briefly to Wiltshire for the Captain Whitesmith affair, and I was not surprised when I returned to Baker Street to find that I had a whole number of replies to my 'university applications'. Annoyingly the one that I had been particularly waiting for was not among them; indeed it was not until the day that our next adventure concerning the Falkland Islander Mr. Jones was resolved that it finally arrived, then I had to wait another few days as John was called into the surgery because three doctors there had most inconsiderately all come down with some bug or other. Hence it was the second week of February when we finally headed to South Wales, and a meeting with someone who had more than a little explaining to do.

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Mr. Hadrian Child was Admissions Manager of the University of Monmouthshire and South Wales, and received us in his plush Cardiff offices with what was clearly more than a little concern. As well he might; as well as the matter at hand the sometimes worryingly efficient Miss St. Leger had told me that he was currently conducting affairs with not just one but two wives of members of the university's board. I was not of course going to be crass as to bring that up, although there was the remote possibility that someone might quite cruelly deliver evidence of his infidelity (by recorded delivery) to his very formidable lady wife who had a reputation for flattening people that she disliked. It had been quite unfair of John to ask, when seeing a picture of the couple, if this entailed her sitting on said people. 

Suggesting that she might also have a job as a part-time steam-roller had, I felt, been pushing things. Well, pushing them a bit.

“Gentlemen”, Mr. Child smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

John and I both took our seats.

“I am afraid that it is not pleasure that brings me to this town”, I said firmly. “It is business. The business of unfair discrimination.”

He looked confused if, I noted, relieved that the conversation was not headed in the direction that he must have feared when he had seen our cards. That relief would not last long.

“I do not follow”, he said.

“Some time back”, I said, “the son of a friend of mine applied to this institution. My friend was a miner in his day, and his son works above ground rather than below. The boy sent an essay here as part of his application, and the university rejected him.”

“We do have many more applicants than places, sir”, Mr. Child said, smiling falsely. I decided that I really disliked that smile.

“I understand that”, I said. “I am however a little perplexed at something else, and I wonder if someone in your position might be able to enlighten me?”

“I shall do my best, sir.”

“You see Mr. Child”, I said, “it is like this. I am no English expert but I read the boy's essay and thought it excellent. So I did a little test. I copied it and the second essay he did, and had them sent in to a number of universities across England including ones in Oxford and Cambridge. I also sent the second of the essays here. However, I had a strong suspicion that my friend's humble origins may have been a factor in his son's rejection, so I had the essays sent from an address in London with a covering letter stating that they were from a minor member of the Royal Family of whom our dear Queen is known to be fond. I am sure that you can imagine my surprise when every single institution not only accepted the application but some three-quarters offered a scholarship and over half - _including this one_ \- said that they would make it a full one!”

I looked pointedly at the fellow now looking decidedly uneasy before me.

“I think this is where you explain why the same quality essay is accepted by your university if it comes from a nobleman, but rejected if it comes from a miner”, I said. “I have plenty of time.”

He shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Well, we do make mistakes, sir”, he tried. “We could always offer....”

“I think that both you and I know that this was no 'mistake', sir”, I said icily. “As for subjecting Mr. Huwel Peters to the sort of institution where he would be judged by his father's profession rather than his excellent writing skills, I rather think that the boy deserves better. I shall be having words with my friend the prime minister about keeping a closer eye on _some_ universities and their selection processes. Good day, sir.”

I stood and swept from the room, John scurrying after me. There was a fast train back to London waiting for me, and I planned to make good use of the first-class carriage that I had reserved on it. Also to make good use of John!

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We might have stayed in Wales to conclude this case but as it happened Mr. Peters had remained in London where he was staying with a friend, so I invited him round to Baker Street the day after our return. It was a most pleasant winter's day, topped off by the headline in the 'Times' about a certain Welsh university official who had been found out by his wife to have been conducting more than one affair with the wives of his fellow workers and who was now both out of employment and in hospital with two gunshot wounds. It almost merited John's terrible attempt at humour when he suggested that the headline should have been 'Pity, Pity, Bang Bang'!

Against all the odds, he was getting worse!

“I could go to one of the Oxford or Cambridge universities and explain my mild deceit”, I said, “but I happened to know one of the chancellors at one of them from a previous case and sent your son's essays to him under his own name although I did not mention my own connection to him. He said he had rarely seen anything better, and would welcome Huwel starting at Bonaventure this summer.”

I could see that he was thinking the obvious and hurried on.

“In fact he and his professors thought the essays so good that they are prepared to offer him a full scholarship”, I smiled. “That is of course subject to his maintaining his grades throughout his course, but I am sure that he would be up to that.”

“Thank you sir”, my guest said gratefully. “I really don't know what.....”

He suddenly stopped. I looked at him in surprise, then realized that he was looking over my shoulder to where.... oh. I had left the miner's helmet out. Oops.

He just shook his head at me.

“You should write to 'Aunt Aneira'”, he said firmly. “You need help!”

“Why?” I asked innocently. “There is nothing wrong with a little delving.”

He just shook his head at me, but smiled.

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	15. Case 225: The Adventure Of Sir Archibald Bunker ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. Sherlock is ordered by his fearsome mother to take a case involving that seemingly impossible thing, a popular politician (sic). There is a break-in at the Palace, more trauma-inducing fiction courtesy of Lady Holmes, and, sadly, an irritating lounge-lizard of a brother who has not been hit by that meteorite that everyone keeps praying for.   
> Yet.....

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

This case was one which I was Commanded to investigate by my inimitable – John had better not be smirking any time soon – mother, which in itself was a Bad Sign. The last time that that had happened had been the Lace Is More case (The Adventure Of The Hysterical Woman) back in ‘Seventy-Nine; I had a frequent reminder of that as Timmy who I had seen in lacy glory still worked for my friend Sweyn as security, and was therefore occasionally treated by John. The teasing rogue would always look knowingly at me when our paths crossed in 221B, which was hardly fair as he had secured me only a small discount when I had purchased… ahem!

My cousin Luke had come round, and it said something for his nobility of character that he did not hesitate discussing a family matter in front of John before he got round to the matter at hand. Then again, Mother regarded Benji as family and, to the poor fellow's horror, had written another story about him and my cousin ('Rugby Special'). Now the mere mention of that sport had the fellow shaking in fear.

Of course I had not asked for details! I valued my (remaining) sanity!

“I am worried about Carl”, Luke said.

We both looked at him in surprise.

“What about him?” I asked. “Anne is not worse again, is she?”

“She holds her own but the doctors say that there is no hope”, he sighed. “No, it is your Mr. Hunter. I had thought that Carl would be all right with him working at your friend Mr. Godfreyson's molly-houses in his time off but he is apparently not.”

“What about Danny?” I asked. Luke shook his head.

“Thankfully he is one of the most moral fellows I have ever met”, he said. “He really loves Anne; you know as well as I do how she does not take to most people, yet she says that she could not do without him. I confronted him about it and he said that he does like Carl but that he would not even consider making a move on him while he is married. But he does not like being told what to do in his spare time, which I suppose is understandable.”

 _Even if one of the gentlemen he 'does' is talking to me just now,_ I thought dryly. I blamed John for making me think like that.

“Not forgetting that my brother has five sons four of whom are fully-grown, and that Charles is actually a couple of months older than Danny”, I said instead. “I do not see that there is much that can be done except to be thankful that our new steward is an honourable man. What really brings you here today, Luke?”

He looked askance at me.

“Mother!” he said heavily.

I winced.

“You have not brought another of her stories, have you?” John asked looking round anxiously as if he expected Luke to suddenly produce one of the horrors out of thin air. “I had to treat Mr. Jackson-Giles the other week and the poor fellow was shaking when he mentioned what she had written about the two of you.”

I smiled covertly at that. John always got jealous whenever Benji came round, which meant that my love had to be Corrected in his attitude. Luckily (and certainly not because I paid him so to do) Benji came round _often!_

“I threatened to buy him a rugby kit because of it”, Luke sighed. “That is why I can barely sit down today; he managed to 'talk' me out of it.”

“Too much information, cousin!” I said warningly. “I could always arrange for one to be sent to his house with some ideas as to how he might use it on you.”

He looked horrified!

“Movingswiftlyon”, he said. “Mother is worried about another of her Coven, as the doctor here calls them.”

“They all wear black, and meet to spread suffering and pain”, John said with a smile.

“They meet to exchange ideas for their stories”, I said reprovingly.

“That was what I said!”

I stared warningly at him. I would be hiring a rugby kit myself and using it on him if he was not careful. Or indeed if the mood took me. His eyes widened when he quite correctly divined my thoughts and he shuddered most deliciously.

“Sherlock!”

I turned my attentions back to Luke and smiled pleasantly.

“Just 'sporting' with John”, I teased. “Go on.”

“You two are almost as bad as Benji!” he grumbled. “You should know the lady in question, or at least her husband. She is Mrs. Edith Bunker, the wife of the indefatigable Mr. Archibald Bunker.”

Of course we knew that gentleman, one of the most colourful figures in politics around the turn of the century. The Conservative Mr. Archibald Bunker had quite accurately been featured in a cartoon in the 'Times' under a dictionary definition of the word 'irascible' yet he was one of the most popular and respected politicians in parliament. The simple reason was that he was outspoken if not downright blunt in expressing his opinions, and would call a spade a spade if not adding a few choice adjectives to demonstrate exactly what he thought of said garden implement. Randall had spoken of him one time when he had had to prevent the fellow from being invited to a gala event where he would in all likelihood have been introduced to the Queen, which prospect my lounge-lizard of a brother had viewed with unbridled terror.

_Now there was an idea...._

“Mrs. Bunker's daughter Gloria has recently married a young ne'er-do-well by the name of Mr. Michael Smith”, Luke said, looking at me suspiciously as I rubbed my hands together. “The boy hates his father-in-law and that is returned in spades, but he is the son of a cousin of Mr. Gladstone's, Mr. William Smith, so he is I suppose Important. The elder Mr. Smith is one of those whose name has been advanced for a baronetcy after the general election last year.”

_(John says that I should explain for his foreign readers that there was a subtle difference between a barony and a baronetcy, and as this would later come into the story he is of course right. Both came under the heading of knighthoods but a barony could be inherited by a son or sometimes even a daughter, while a baronetcy died out with the recipient. This was of course of particular import to our family as it meant that Mycroft, much as he desperately craved it, would never be Sir Mycroft Holmes. Unless he bribed someone in power which I would not have put past him, but then all government officials knew and feared his mother, and none of them would have obliged him unless they had also had a one-way ticket to Tibet to hand!)_

“I am to take it that Mr. William Smith has done nothing to earn his forthcoming title?” I asked. Luke nodded.

“As you know the Liberals are weak at the moment with all this to-do over Home Rule”, he said. “Mr. Smith's greatest achievement has been to assist the Grand Old Man to keep the bulk of the party in one piece; it is getting like the Balkans with bits breaking off all over the place. In return Gladstone had been prepared to overlook the fact that he has gotten two of his housemaids pregnant and paid for them to 'move to the country'. But back to the matter at hand; Mother's friend Mrs. Bunker is concerned that her son-in-law will use his father's new title to further strain relations with her husband, which are bad enough already.”

“I like Mr. Bunker”, John said. “So few politicians speak the truth these days, as if they think that we the public cannot handle it. He would never do that.”

I thought for a moment.

“This is quite a challenge”, I said. “But I think that I see a way forward, although it will take a little time to set up. Tell me Luke, what is the process for when honours are handed out in England?”

“Once the lists go in to the prime minister,”, he said, “the government writes to each potential recipient to ask if they would accept the honour.”

We both stared at him in surprise.

“Has anyone ever _refused_ an honour?” John asked at last.

“Yes, once”, Luke said. “Near the end of the fifteenth century†, early Tudor Period.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He already had one!” Luke grinned. “Once they get the letter of acceptance back, arrangements are made for the honours to be granted. Sometimes the Queen will dole them out, although more often these days it is Tum-Tum. One of the few things that he is capable of doing besides the ladies!”

He really was quite disrespectful to our Prince of Wales. He was also right, but that was beside the point.

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In between pounding my love into his mattress with Luke barely out of 221B's front door (my cousin knew me too well to risk coming back for anything), I mused on the problem of Mr. Bunker. This would be difficult as it would involve access to some privileged places – not unlike I was getting with my beloved right now, really – but given what Luke had told me it seemed doable. Plus there would be the added bonus that Randall would have a fit. There might even be a further bonus if I was lucky.

John writhed beneath me and I stepped up my ministrations again, forcing hard into him and coming inside him just as he obtained his own release and collapsed into a broken sweat-soaked mess before me. I sometimes thought back to my (hopefully concealed) shock when I had seen him upon his return from Egypt back in 'Eighty-Six; his former solid 'rugby' figure had gone and he was barely half the man who had left me three years before – deservedly left me, I corrected – let alone the bullet injury which I knew still sometimes gave him pain even if the dratted thing had long since been extracted. Now he was back to his wondrous self, a figure that I would have described as somewhere between 'beefy' and 'stocky' had I not known that either of those words would have embarrassed him horribly. 

No, there was a much better word even if I would never dare to use it, because John would certainly have Pouted and then the whole game would have had to begin again. Beautiful. My man was beautiful, and I was truly blessed to have him in my life.

I could not then know that I was but a few months away from so nearly losing him.

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A few days later Miss Elvira Gorringe called at Baker Street and dropped off a letter that she had ‘collected’ for me. She left with a generous sum for her scientific studies, and with me smiling when I read what she had brought.

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I had quite expected my pestilential brother Randall to come haring round to Baker Street very soon after I had received my letter but for once the 'Times' was slow to get its story out, and it was not until the following day that they had a headline that likely gave the pestilential annoyance the shock of his life. Being perhaps a tad cruel I had arranged to be away from Baker Street and John had told the villain that he had no idea where I was, so he had to track round looking for me until he ran across Luke and I at one of my cousin's clubs.

“This is terrible!” Randall moaned. “How the blazes could such a cock-up have happened?”

The explanation for his rage was that, for reasons even the mighty 'Times' considered impossible to fathom, the government had graciously granted Mr. Archibald Bunker a baronetcy. I knew that while that gentleman would himself have no time for such trifles, his wife would be over the moon at it (perhaps it might even curb her story-writing for a time, which was a further bonus!) and he would accept it for her alone. Now that it was all over the newspapers there was no way that the government could backtrack on it.

“I would say that it could be worse”, I conceded, “but I rather think that for someone in your position, it is very soon going to be.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded. ”How could _this_ be any worse?”

“Well”, I said slowly, “as you know Tum-Tum – sorry, I meant to say His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales – normally stands in for his illustrious mother when it comes to the sword on the shoulder business.”

“Yes”, he said. “So?”

“I observed that the day of the next knighting ceremony coincides with one of his frequent trips to France”, I said, “which as we know he is always reluctant to give up. So Her Majesty will be doing that particular ceremony herself as we know that she will not allow any other family member to step in - _and afterwards she will get to talk with the new Sir Archibald Bunker!”_

He gasped, and reeled away to the bar for a stiff drink or eight. Luke waited until he had gone before speaking.

“How did you manage it?” he asked quietly as Randall downed a large whisky in one go and called for another.

“I arranged for a friend of mine to exchange the letter in which Mr. Smith agreed to accept a knighthood on his father's behalf – as you know the fellow is currently bedridden – for one in which Mr. Bunker agreed to become Sir Archibald.”

He frowned at that.

“But was there not a list of all the recipients at the Palace?” he asked.

“I had that changed too”, I said airily.

He stared at me in horror.

 _“You broke into Buckingham Palace?”_ he exclaimed.

“Shh!” I said, although being on his fourth whisky I doubted that Randall would hear us. “All part of the service, Luke!”

He just shook his head at me.

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Postscriptum: Just for the record, the government did plan to slip Mr. William Smith an honour the following year but by then 'someone' had informed the 'Times' about the two housemaids and their babies, and he had to resign from government. As John would so rightly say; oh dear how sad never mind!

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_Notes:_   
_† Luke was only including what might be termed voluntary refusals. In his eternal efforts to make money King Charles the First (1625-1649) 'bestowed' knighthoods on many people who desperately did not want them, but this was merely a ruse because as knights (for which they technically qualified under an old but long ignored law) they would have been obliged to have brought him a cash gift at his coronation. Despite their only having been told of their ennoblement many years after the coronation Charles still fined them all for not turning up with the money. He then wondered why he was so unpopular...._

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	16. Interlude: The Locket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. A jewellery miscalculation.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This was a small but embarrassing incident that occurred just before our next case started. As has been more than amply demonstrated on so many occasions my own detective abilities were few and far between and in this instance, far from not helping they made me think the worst when I should not have done.

I had called into the jeweller's in Baker Street just to waste some time when Mr. Abrahams came out from the back. We were passable acquaintances as Sherlock had solved a small matter for him some years ago that, like many such matters, could have become so much worse had it not been remedied when it had been (recorded in my friend's notes and added to this collection as The Adventure Of The Jewish Jeweller).

“Doctor Watson”, he smiled. “Would you like to collect Mr. Holmes's locket while you are here? I have just finished repairing the chain.”

I think that I managed to mask my surprise quite well. Lockets in those far-off days were worn primarily by ladies, usually with a small keepsake of their gentleman friend inside. 

“Of course”, I smiled, managing to cover my surprise. “It will save him a trip.”

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There was no sign of 221B's resident bacon-stealer who, I presumed, had gone out as his bedroom door was open. I placed the locket on his writing-desk and stared at it, not at all curious as to what was inside. And not at all tempted to flip open the simple clasp and find out.

I was not at all tempted for seventeen minutes until I just happened to wander over to it, just happened to pick it up and just happened to....

“John?”

I remained calm and collected, and turned to smile at the great detective emerging from my room who....

He is tutting at me. 

All right. I let out a manly expression of surprise and....

I can _hear_ that eye-roll! 

I shrieked like a schoolgirl caught doing something wrong and span round to face him, my face flushed. Nothing could be worse than this.

Except that Sherlock himself looked guilty. Oh no!

“Ah”, he said. “You have it.”

“What.... who.... why....?”

No man should have been able to talk in that high a pitch, or at least not outside a choir stall.

“Open it”, he said quietly.

I did not want to but I had no choice. Inside was a single lock of hair, preserved behind a glass insert. Dark-blond hair, not unlike my own.

“That is yours”, he said, looking as embarrassed as I felt. “That last night in Nebraska, I cut it from your hair before I left for my 'appointment' with Professor Moriarty. I wanted to have a piece of you always next to my heart if the worst happened.”

I did not know who was more mortified by all this, him or me.

“Sex?” he suggested.

“Ohmygodyes!” I said perhaps a little too fervently.

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Two weeks later I too had a locket. And the maids needed to be spoken to by Mrs. Malone. The dust in this room made my eyes water something terrible.

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	17. Case 226: Blood In The Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. A little technology is a dangerous thing, and where there is a high-level foul-up there is almost always bound to be a high-level cover-up – at least until Sherlock gets involved and manages to effect at least some justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of the cutter 'Alicia', which sailed into a patch of mist and was never seen again.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Generally speaking the fairer sex had one of two reactions when meeting the love of my life for the first time. The most common, regrettably, was to simper at him regardless of the woman's age or even marital status (and on more than one occasion, with their husband standing right there next to them!). Worse, some horrible person would always smirk when I coughed pointedly, although he would always make it up to me later... ahem! Less common was the reaction of the likes of our estimable landlady Mrs. Malone who wanted to mother the fellow (he graciously allowed that, provided it involved copious amounts of bacon and coffee). 

Today I had just seen a third and new type of response on a doorstep of a small cottage just outside the town of Selsey in West Sussex, when an elderly lady had opened the door to us, taken Sherlock's card, looked at it, looked at him – and promptly fainted!

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Mrs. Edna Berry – for that was the lady's name – eventually came to with the help of some smelling salts that I had in my bag, although she still seemed incredulous that we were there.

“Bert said you must get _thousands_ of letters!” she said, looking at us as if she thought we might suddenly vanish. “Waste of a stamp, he said. But poor Gertie she's been so upset by it all so I thought, why not?”

“Your letter was sufficiently intriguing for the doctor and myself to travel nearly one hundred miles though an indifferent March day”, Sherlock smiled. “Pray compose your thoughts, start at the beginning and tell us all. I believe that you are concerned over the loss of a boat and three local men, one of whom is your brother-in-law?”

She nodded (at least she was not simpering) and began her tale. Sherlock had explained the matter to me and, given the nature of what had happened, I had immediately been suspicious even before he had said that the matter needed our urgent attention. There was something serious going on here.

“My sister Gertie she married a fisherman from West Wittering, a small place up the coast”, the lady said. “I'm sure it's hardly less dangerous than my Bert working in the naval docks every day but it seems to have done for Fred, her husband.”

 _'Seems to have'_ , I wondered. _Was there any doubt?_

Sherlock smiled at the lady and that seemed to calm her a little.

“Fred was asked to help out with repairs to a small cutter owned by a rich fellow on Hayling”, she said. “That's the island along the coast as you head towards Portsmouth. The money was good and they could get cover for the boat he was on, so he said yes. All I know is the name of the boat, the 'Alicia'. A small thing so Fred told Gert, used solely for pleasure. Nice if you've got the time and money for that sort of thing, I suppose.”

“I don't know the whys and wherefores but the fellow who ordered the repairs got iffy about paying once they were done”, she went on. “Proper High Church sort, very snooty and right up himself Bert said. So Fred and the boys, they had a bit of fun at his expense. The boat had one of those figureheads on the front done up as a blond woman and he and the guys carved some, uh, rude words on it.”

I thought that rather amusing but Sherlock was frowning for some reason. My sense of trouble only increased.

“Before the fellow paid up they had to take the boat out and make sure she was all shipshape and Bristol fashion”, the lady continued. “That was three weeks ago today. She sailed into a patch of mist and was never seen again.”

“How do you know about the patch of mist?” Sherlock asked.

“She'd just passed Fred's brother Bill out in his trawler”, our hostess explained. “He told me he was sure that was the same boat; he'd seen it being repaired. Couldn't see the name on it but he knew the colour, mauve with a purple line, and he was sure he could make out that figurehead. Bright blue with yellow hair, he said.”

Sherlock was still frowning. This was bad indeed.

“But that's not the strangest thing, sirs”, the lady said earnestly. “I told you about that figurehead. It turned up again – you'll never guess where!”

“Somewhere in your husband's workplace”, Sherlock said calmly.

She stared at him in astonishment.

“That's... that's amazing!” she said. “Yes, there's this place where they throw old wood and other stuff they don't want. Bert found it there and it had some of the, uh, words on it, and he thought some of the wood around it came from the boat as well. Then one of the dockyard managers started yelling at him for some reason. He didn't know why; they've never had a problem with the men taking stuff from there before. It only gets dumped anyway.”

Sherlock was contriving to look even more worried.

“I have an important question”, he said. “Did your husband check to see if this figurehead was there any time after he first saw it?”

She nodded.

“He slipped back the very next day”, she said, “and it was gone. All the wood with it, every scrap. Nothing else had been taken so it wasn't just a clean-out.”

Sherlock folded his arms and thought.

“Mrs. Berry”, he said at last, “I responded to your letter not just because it was intriguing but because I could see one possible explanation of the facts that, most regrettably, what you have told me today only serves to confirm. Now, I see that your cottage is set a little apart from the town, which is all to the good in the circumstances. I need you to do something for me.”

“Sir?”

“It may be that there is a perfectly innocent explanation for what has befallen your brother-in-law and his friends”, Sherlock said. “But then again, it may be something rather more sinister. If it is the latter then it is only fair I make very clear that you, and those close to you, may be in some danger. And by that I mean deadly danger.”

The woman opened her mouth but could not speak. She was clearly very frightened.

“I would not alarm you without good reason”, Sherlock said, “but I know the way that these things work. Too many of my cases have involved people who have little or no regard for human life, and if that sort of person turns their attentions in this direction they will not hesitate to kill anyone they consider even the remotest threat. It is vitally important that you say nothing about our visit today, not even to your sister, and that your husband, although he must be told, has it very firmly impressed on him that he must not relay that information to _anyone_. You must be certain that this goes no further than this cottage, not even to your own kin. The doctor and I will make sure to visit the post-office and state that we are investigating a matter elsewhere on the peninsula.”

“You're scaring me!” she managed in a small voice.

“I will have to solve this case quickly”, Sherlock said. “Fortunately I think that that will be possible, or at least as much as it can be solved. I will return as soon as I can, hopefully with better news or at least more comfort. Apart from your brother, do you know the other men who were on the boat when it disappeared?”

“The Appletree boys, Jack and Jim”, she said. “Both good men, with young families. Is there... do you think....?”

“I rather fear that they are lost at sea”, Sherlock said gently. “In cases such as this we must strive to first protect the living and later we may avenge the dead. I am sorry that I can bring you so little comfort, madam, but like my friend the doctor here I must be honest in my diagnoses. We shall see you again shortly. In the meantime, keep silence – for your own safety!”

We bowed and left.

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It was a long carriage ride back to Chichester Station across the Manhood Peninsula. The area was thinly populated although I had noted in the local newspaper that even here there were plans for a railway or at least a tramway to run down to Selsey.

“This is serious, is it not?” I said after a while.

He nodded but did not seem predisposed to talk. We had done as he had said we would, walking into Selsey (by a roundabout route; I had wondered why we had avoided the town on the way down) and mentioning a local landowner as having called for Sherlock's services. He had also sent a telegram to London which, I suspected, was in code as I was sure that he did not have a Cousin Muriel (although with his convoluted family, maybe not one hundred per cent sure!). I wondered at the need for all this subterfuge but I knew my friend well enough by now to accept whatever he did, he did for a reason.

At the station Sherlock purchased two tickets on to Portsmouth, and we found a comfortable first-class apartment into which we settled.

“It is deadly serious”, he said once we were under way. “Poor Mrs. Berry is in considerable danger, and if it were to emerge that she had called me in on the matter even my life might be in peril.”

I stared at him in shock.

“Not another government cover-up!” I exclaimed, fearing the worst. We had not long gotten over the shocking case concerning the loss of another boat, the steamer 'Friesland'. 

He shook his head.

“Worse”, he said. “It is our sole advantage that the gentleman that we are going to see owes me a small favour for a private matter that I resolved for him some years back but whether he will consider this too great a repayment – we shall see. I would rather that than the alternative.”

He would say nothing else and seemed sunk into a depression of his own, And that worried me still further.

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We travelled through Portsmouth and alighted at the Harbour station from whence Sherlock headed to a restaurant on the seafront. After about a half an hour a boy brought a set of telegrams which Sherlock tipped him for and then rifled through, making notes as I toyed worriedly with my food. I was so uneasy that I was barely able to manage his slice of chocolate cake as well as mine.

“This is a little better”, he said at last. “Per the old song; heigh-ho and a rising star, for we all know what sailors are!”

He would say no more and we finished our food before walking the short distance to the Royal Navy dockyards. Sherlock presented his card at the gate and asked to see the gentleman whose name was written on it. I wondered if his request might be refused but only a few minutes later the reply came back to admit us and a very short time after that we were shown into the offices of the Lord High Admiral.

Mr. Richard James Meade, better known as the Earl of Clanwilliam, was a tall grey-haired gentleman in his sixties and quite evidently wary of us from the start. Sherlock had told me not to take any notes during the meeting, which I also considered a bad sign.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson”, he said with a polite smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Sherlock sat down, and I followed him.

“I am afraid that is far from 'pleasure' that brings me here this fine day, sir”, Sherlock said heavily. “It is about the killing of three innocent men.”

There. A definite twitch on the admiral's face.

“A killing?” he said. “That is serious. How did it happen, pray?”

Sherlock sat back.

“The doctor read to me, some time last year, about a new super-fast boat that some private entrepreneur was building up in his own native Northumberland”, he said. “It achieves its great speed through the use of some method called turbines, but as I was otherwise occupied I did not pay it the attention that it doubtless merited.”

I blushed at that. I remembered just where my friend's focus had been while I had been trying to read him that article, as he had challenged me to read the thing to him while he was jerking me off. The article had been much longer than I had thought, and it had not been the only thing!

“However”, Sherlock said and his tone was suddenly sharper, “what I occasionally lack in attentiveness I strive to make up for in understanding of the human psyche. The greatest navy in the world would not be prepared to sit back and allow some upstart jackanapes to come out with an invention that he might sell to others rather than to them. There have been plenty of instances in the past of governments and large organizations using – _abusing_ – their positions of power to seize the efforts of lesser men, or copying them and then claiming the credit for themselves. This I believe is what was intentioned here.”

The admiral's smile was now notably strained. 

“The Royal Navy, to its discredit, developed a rival to this 'Turbinia'†, their own turbine-driven craft through which they fully intended to steal the ideas of our brave entrepreneur. If the speeds claimed for this method of propulsion are to be believed then the first navy in the world to implement it in all their ships would enjoy a considerable advantage over their enemies for some years to come. I would further presume that like all such technologies it can be improved, so that advantage may well be retained for quite some time.”

“That is some interesting presumption on your part, sir”, the admiral said. “Have you any _facts_ with which to back it up?”

Sherlock smiled dangerously.

“As you say, sir, some interesting speculation”, he said. “But I have several acquaintances in the journalistic profession and some of them are definitely of the sort who would quite happily poke around the dockyards – and among its _many_ workers – until they found evidence of this ship.” He hesitated before adding, “I meant to say, this _speculative_ ship. _If_ it exists.”

“That, sir, would be an act of treachery to this great Nation”, the admiral said forcibly.

“Obviously, sir, you have not read the works of the good doctor here”, Sherlock replied just as forcibly. “Justice before everything is my creed, and everything includes patriotism. I love my country but I will not stand aside and see three innocent men slain because some blundering idiot of a captain drove the Royal Navy's fastest ship through the middle of their cutter. Then to his eternal dishonour – although clearly he has no honour – he then left those men to drown in an attempt to cover up his foul deed!”

I stared at him in shock. There was a long silence.

“What do you intend to do?” the admiral asked at last. 

“As I said, my friends are quite capable of finding this craft and/or the people who have worked on it, and blowing this story across the front pages of the country's newspapers”, Sherlock said. “If you wish to stop that I will require you to do three things and to leave here today with a written assurance on your word as a gentleman that you will carry them out within the month. Otherwise I will act.”

“This speculative ship, if it exists, could easily be dismantled in such a time”, the admiral said. 

Sherlock looked sharply at him and the seaman actually shuffled backwards slightly. I would have too, under that look.

“I am not one to bandy threats around”, Sherlock said coldly, “but if the Royal Navy thinks that the German Kaiser is a problem, then they will find that _my_ displeasure is infinitely worse. Be assured, sir, that the top ranks in your organization would find every skeleton in their cupboards aired in the popular press, at frequent intervals over the coming weeks and months. Starting with a certain rear-admiral and his _three_ wives, each in a major southern naval base!”

I really wished that I had been allowed to take notes as the admiral had gone deathly pale at that moment.

“Say on”, he said quickly. 

“First I shall require a written promise that no action will be taken against Mr. Albert Berry, his family and friends”, Sherlock said. “As I am sure you would have been capable of divining it was they who called me in, to solve the riddle of the disappearance of Mrs. Berry's brother-in-law and two men from the latter’s village, left to drown by one of your men.”

“That seems reasonable”, the admiral said. “Next?”

“My next demand will be more expensive for you”, Sherlock said. “The Appletree and Featherstone families are of course hit by the loss of their men. Fortuitously an anonymous and rich Sussex philanthropist died recently and his curious will stated that his _considerable_ estate was to be realized and the cash then divided amongst the victims of the next shipping accident off the Sussex coast. I have a feeling – and I am sure that I am right in said feeling – that he was very, _very_ rich.”

“He undoubtedly was”, the admiral agreed. “Finally?”

“This demand will cost you less but will be inconvenient for you”, Sherlock said. “Not that that concerns me. The commander responsible for the sinking will leave the Royal Navy. Much as I would prefer him to be fired in disgrace, and indeed left to the same watery fate as that to which he abandoned those poor men, I appreciate that such an action would be difficult for you so I shall allow you to offer him the option of quitting. However if he is still here a month from now....”

“I could of course fire anyone”, the admiral pointed out, “and you would never know.”

Sherlock smiled dangerously. The room suddenly seemed colder for some reason.

“Do you _really_ think”, he said silkily, “that I would not detect such a move? I shall check, just as I shall be receiving regular letters from Mrs. Berry in future and will be monitoring her and her family's welfare with a watchful eye. You are I know a man of honour so you will adhere to this deal, and not just because you know that I too am a man of honour and that my wrath is not to be incurred without _severe_ penalty. For after the thrice-married rear-admiral all of whose wives come from noble families who would be _mortified_ by their daughters' disgrace, I should tell you that my next target will be a certain high-ranking naval officer to whom you yourself are related. _One whose sexual peccadilloes make the three wives look positively conservative!”_

The look on my friend's face was, I would admit, frightening. Not for the first or the last time I was silently grateful that he was on the side of justice.

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Once we were ensconced in our first-class apartment at the station Sherlock seemed to slump in his seat. I moved across and pulled him into an embrace, and he sighed.

“This is the downside of my work”, he said, sniffing mournfully. “The likes of the Royal Navy are as powerful as any government, more so if anything, and what I extracted from the earl was probably the best that I could have got. But I still feel as if I have failed those three men.”

“You have done as much as you could”, I said, pulling him closer. “Are you sure that he will keep his word?”

“He knows me well enough that I will not stop in this matter until he does”, Sherlock said. “But he is as I said a man of honour so yes, he will keep to the deal. We must repair to Mrs. Berry to re-assure her that all is about as well as it could be and that she is safe. We shall be late home tonight.”

“Why do we not stay at the hotel in Selsey?” I asked. “We could wire Mrs. Malone that we shall be delayed, and besides....”

He looked curiously at me.

“Besides what?” he asked.

“I always wanted to have sex in the Manhood!” I grinned.

The bastard punched me for that! But it was worth it to see him smile.

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I suppose that I should have known Sherlock might come prepared. But I still stared at the item he was holding up with a mixture of horror and fascination. He obviously misinterpreted my reaction and himself blushed.

“If it is too much....” he began.

“No!” I said, a little too forcibly. “It is just..... well.... green!”

Possibly one of the dumbest things I had ever said (yes, I know; lots of competition, shut up!) as I stared at the garment. It was a pair of silken panties in the finest lace – except they were very clearly my size and almost transparent. I groaned at the sight and my reaction clearly pleased him, the horny bastard.

“Not now, John!” he grinned.

“What?” I gasped.

“Now I just want to have sex with you”, he grinned. “Sustained periods of sexual gratification during which I intend to make you achieve orgasmic release as often as possible.”

Words. I was sure I remembered how to form them. Some time quite recently.

“Then tomorrow”, he grinned wickedly, “we are going on a long carriage ride back to Chichester followed by an even longer train ride all the way to Victoria Station, and finally a bumpy cab ride to Baker Street.”

I gaped at him. He would not be so cruel!

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Apparently he would. I had to wear the things for the whole damn journey and he made it infinitely worse by teasing me all the way there! Mrs. Malone had openly laughed at me as I had virtually sprinted up the stairs, and some blue-eyed bastard of a lover took far too long to join me, for which I took great pleasure in refusing to put out for him. For at least five minutes.

All right, two minutes.

Ish.

Shut up!

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Postscriptum: There were rumours in the newspapers for some time afterwards that the Royal Navy had tried out an experimental turbine-driven boat called 'H.M.S. Celerity' but that it had been a failure. Certainly no sign of this mystery ship ever came to light. Sherlock told me that a Captain Andrew Roberts had resigned from the Navy the same day we had returned to London but that he would continue to monitor the fellow, to make sure that he did not try to slip back in again. 

Perhaps typically the villain broke the spirit of the deal if not the letter by using his contacts to gain employment at a ship design agency who only did Royal Navy work. However after a number of occasions when some unknown assailant kept shooting at him and getting ever nearer, he quit both his job and England. Most unfortunately (from his point of view if no-one else's) his boat was rammed on the way to France and sank, taking him with it. He ended his wretched life in the same waters to which he had consigned his three victims, which proves I suppose that karma does have a sense of humour.

Sherlock also told me the details of those 'peccadilloes' of the admiral's close relation. Safe to say that I would never again look at a ship's guns without.... I mean, how did one even balance on the things?

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_Notes:_   
_† 'H.M.S. Celerity' was not a real ship, but the year after this story is set the Royal Navy was horribly embarrassed at the Diamond Jubilee Naval Review when 'Turbinia' (now preserved) rolled up unannounced and ran rings round the ships of the greatest navy in the world. The senior service was (grudgingly) convinced and two ships, 'H.M.S. Viper' and 'H.M.S. Cobra' were launched as turbine-powered vessels in 1899. The design improved steadily over the following years and was most famously demonstrated in the great 'H.M.S. Dreadnought' (1906)._

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	18. Case 227: The Adventure Of The Doomed Heir ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. Dark dealings in Africa seem a world away from a former cathedral city in rural mid-Norfolk. But all is not what it seems (when is it ever?) and the great detective once again has to apply justice rather than the law. Or to at least stand back and let justice be applied – brutally!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of attempted rape.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I was absolutely sure that some of the more committed fans of John's writings were borderline insane, and indeed should have been committed to an asylum rather than being left out on the streets! Some of the questions that we were asked in the regular flood of letters to Baker Street were worrisome in the extreme, although some from certain ladies and gentlemen who were certain that we were as my mother so wonderfully put it 'together together' were.... well, most of the things that they suggested we were doing – utterly, physically impossible!

Most. Not all. We made sure to test those that needed testing.

One of the more astute (and saner!) observations made by some people was that as the years progressed our cases seemed to be becoming less dangerous, although as the traumatic events that lay in wait for us both just a few months ahead would show, that was far from a steady trend. The main reason for this was John's wish not to publish stories that repeated earlier ones as even for the British criminal classes there were only so many crimes available, although the inventiveness of some of them never ceased to surprise me. In this case as in several others that creativity chilled me to the core as I so nearly made the wrong deduction – which may well have caused no end of troubles.

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The twelfth of March was always a sombre day in our lives as it was the anniversary of my 'death' in Nebraska, although of course it was also the anniversary of my return to life three years after that. Although John and I had each other now (in every sense!) I knew that he always felt sad on this day, especially because he preferred to spend it doing lots of something that was _not_ The Thing That Started With The Third Letter Of The Alphabet And Rhymed With Huddling, which I made sure never to say around him (I still got some suspicious looks when I accidentally came close to it, though). Hence we were sat doing some manly embracing on the couch when I opened the letter from Norfolk.

“This is from a Colonel Caesar Livesey”, I said. “From a place called North Elmham. Do you know of the fellow from those social pages that you hardly ever read except on the rare off-chance that you just happen to be passing a newspaper that happens to be open at those particular pages?”

Even though he was virtually in my arms, I could feel the pout. I suppose that I was lucky that I did not get an elbow in the kidneys for teasing him again.

“I would not go so far as to call him a gentleman”, he said stiffly. “He is recently returned from the latest war against the Ashanti, another unnecessary African conflict this time in our Gold Coast Colony. There were rumours of some scandal out there which was why he came home in the middle of the war brief though it was, but as usual it was all ifs, buts and maybes. Nothing that could be brought home to the fellow.”

“He claims that someone is threatening his son and heir”, I said, reading down the letter. “He does not however say why, which I find odd.”

“That would be his elder son Captain Antoninus Livesey”, he said at once. “Twenty-two and an apple that has not fallen far from the tree. His younger brother Tiberius is little better; he is a lieutenant and they both came home with their father. Both were implicated in the scandal, whatever it was.”

“Is it either the colonel or his wife who has read too much Roman history?” I inquired.

“Mrs. Livesey died ten years ago not long after the birth of their sixth child”, he said. “Two sons and two daughters survived, none of whom are married as yet although the eldest daughter Livia has been presented at court. I think that she is engaged to a common soldier which I am sure will be _far_ beneath what her father thinks suitable!”

“An amazing mine of knowledge from someone who never reads the social pages!” I grinned.

This time the pout was even wider, I was sure.

“A mine that it is high time that I delved into again”, I said. “My room, and this time I have a new and even longer Drill to go with the miner's helmet!”

He fled before me, whining in what I hoped was anticipation. Or terror. I was not fussy.

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Colonel Livesey had done himself no favours by _demanding_ my immediate presence in North Elmham, so I felt no guilt in first reducing my beloved to a happy pile of goo before dispatching a telegram informing him that I was finishing off a matter for Her Majesty's Government (a most useful lie; it proved that even Randall was good for something) and then returning to John for seconds (all right, fourths). If we were to be on a case then I had to get plenty of sex in to make up for any that I did not get over the coming days. That was my excuse and I was sticking to it!

It was as things turned out just as well that I did, for this case would leave neither of us in the mood for it afterwards.

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We were barely out of Liverpool Street Station the following day before John slipped his shoes off, raised the arm-rests and curled himself up for a long nap. The ride across London from Baker Street to the Great Eastern Railway's impressive terminus had been agony for the poor fellow and I had had to help him onto the station concourse, although he had glared at me when I had suggested hiring a wheelchair. He slumbered on with only the occasional ye.... manly exclamation of surprise in his sleep when a jolt jarred his abused backside and I had an incredulous look from the ticket-collector, but we made it to Forncett Junction where thankfully for my love (and that glorious backside of his!) we made our one and only change. He was more awake by then and was able to limp the several hundred miles across the platform to the waiting branch-line train. Thankfully he did not have to use the footbridge or we would never have got there!

“What can you tell me of this place, North Elmham?” I asked once we were sat down. I had admittedly come late to the understanding that sometimes the actions of the present were sometimes (oftentimes, this being England) founded in the past, and besides, I loved hearing John talk. Preferably while we were horizontal but one could not have everything, at least not until we were safely back in Baker Street. 

As so often he divined my thoughts by my lusty look at him and shuddered most pleasurably. _As well he might!_

“It was once a very important place”, he said. “The Anglo-Saxons had their cathedral for the northern folk of East Anglia here, but after the Norman Conquest King William wanted to destroy as much of old England as he could culturally and so moved many of the diocese capitals, like Selsey in our last case which was moved to Chichester. Norwich became the centre for this diocese and the old cathedral at North Elmham was demolished; I presume that it was wooden so there cannot be anything left now. I think that it was first set up in the seventh century not long after England became Christian so this is an old place. I would wager that they do not like change, and I would wager a guinea that they cannot like any of the Liveseys!”

Just how true that last statement was, we were about to find out.

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Normally I would have based myself at the house of my client, but John's description of the Liveseys made me decide to book us instead into a charming old tavern on the village's High Street before going to Livesey Hall (surprise!). My love's description of the family had prepared me for the worst, and they did not disappoint.

Colonel Caesar Livesey was in his late forties, a sour-faced fellow generally unprepossessing in his appearance although I quickly ascertained that he believed his super-sized ego would make up for any character deficiencies (it did not). His two sons were no better; Captain Antoninus Livesey was a bulky and mean-looking fellow who looked rather more than his twenty-two years, while Captain Tiberius a year younger was shorter, sharp-faced and looked very suspiciously at us. I would not have given tuppence for the lot of them.

“You are here at least!” the colonel said rudely, thus managing to lower himself even further in my estimation. “What did you think about these threats to Tony?”

“You only summarized them in your letter, sir”, I pointed out. “May I see the original communications, please?”

Captain Livesey handed me a sheaf of letters which I read through. All of them were hand-written in capitals, and they were nearly identical in that all threatened 'a fitting retribution against the squire's first-born for his unspeakable acts'. Each also had a different number of days listed until that vengeance would happen, counting down from seven to three. Years of dealing with the slippery Randall at once made me suspicious of their curious wording, but the question was how to uncover what may or may not have been behind it.

“How did the letters reach you, sir?” I asked our host.

“Damn things were posted up around the village”, the colonel snorted, “a different place each time. For all that they are a useless bunch of peasants, the villagers let me know if they came across one. Bastard even put one on the church notice-board would you believe?”

I took a deep breath. This next question would not be well received.

“These letters mention 'unspeakable acts'”, I said. “What might they be?”

I did not imagine the slightest of hesitations before the colonel spoke, nor both his son's red faces. Interesting.

“Harden – a boy from the village – is in my regiment”, the colonel said at last. “Useless cove, but for some reason my eldest girl Livia took to him and wanted him to marry her. Luckily he got badly injured in a scouting party in our time in Africa, although for some reason she refuses to break it off. Yet now people in the village are saying that Tony was responsible for the fool boy's injuries!”

I thought wryly that whatever else could be said about village gossip, it was rarely far from the truth. With only three days to find out what had really happened several thousand miles away, this would not be easy.

“I want these things stopped”, the colonel said firmly, “and I want the bastard behind them held accountable. That is what I am paying you for, Mr Holmes.”

“I shall get on it right away, sir”, I said. “Since I assume that this most recent letter arrived this morning, we have only three days to secure justice.”

John looked at me sharply. He knew me too well and had spotted the slight evasion in my choice of words, even if our host and his horrible sons had of course not.

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Fortunately Livesey Hall lay a little way to the west of the village, so we were able to drive into nearby Brisley to send a telegram before returning to our inn and a pleasant meal. We made light conversation during it but we both knew that there was something unspoken, and John waited until we were safely up in our room before broaching the subject.

“Something is going on here”, John said shrewdly. “You went out of your way to send that telegram, for one thing.”

I nodded.

“There is an atmosphere in this place”, I said, “and I strongly suspected that if I had sent it from the post-office here it might well have reached the ears of people that I did not wish it to. At least, not yet. I only hope that the wonderful Miss St. Leger can do her magic and uncover what happened halfway around the world.”

“I felt that too”, he said. “I know that some villages can be a bit off with outsiders but it is almost like Heytesbury again. I felt that almost everyone was watching us tonight.”

“They were”, I said. “When we left the station I caught two of the boys there racing down to the village over the fields, doubtless sent by the stationmaster to alert people of our arrival in the village.”

“Is there any danger?” he asked worriedly. 

“Not to us as such”, I said. “We need to find out what is afoot here, and we need to do it fast. Tomorrow we must go and see this Lieutenant Harden.”

“Why him?” my love asked.

“Because I am almost certain that he does not know exactly what is going to happen.”

He just looked at me in adorable confusion. Normally that would have resulted in only one thing, but I felt – and I knew that my love could sense it too – that this might well be a dark case when such things were to be deferred. Likely for some time.

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The following morning we awoke to the news that the letter forewarning the Liveseys that there were now only two days to go before justice was served had actually been pinned to the Hall's front door. One of the maids had taken it to the master of the house who had, in her words, 'not taken it very well' (that girl had a career in diplomacy, I thought). The colonel had sent down to demand our immediate presence but as Lieutenant Harden's house lay almost opposite the inn I decided to call there first. Incredibly I had also had an answer to my telegram from the day before, Miss St. Leger having exceeded even my expectations. 

Unlike some people round here.

Lieutenant Henry Harden was barely twenty years of age, and I felt even the normally imperturbable John flinch when he opened the door to us. His boyish looks had been destroyed by the ravages of war which had left him scarred and limping, and he looked at us uncertainly.

“I will try not to ask questions that would distress you”, I said carefully, “but this concerns your brother.”

I could see him baulk at that, but he nodded and allowed us to come in. I was not surprised to see that even at this hour of the morning he had company. Female company.

“I heard of your being here”, the lady said warily. “I, as I am sure you are aware, am Miss Livia Livesey. Hal's fiancée.”

She said that last word almost as a challenge. I nodded.

“I know about Justin”, I said.

The young man shuddered, and the lady moved swiftly to sit next to him, glaring at me as she did so.

“Is this necessary?” she demanded.

“If you wish to have justice”, I said. “My reputation precedes me, or so I hope, in that you must know I always put justice before the law.”

“The police round here are in Father's pocket”, the lady said scornfully. “The Army covered the whole thing up, as always. But we _will_ have justice!”

I had no doubt that she would. Indeed this was one lady that I hoped fervently would remain largely on the right side of the law, otherwise she might well prove a fearsome adversary.

“You know of my brother”, the young soldier sighed. “Justin was in the Army but he was just along for the money, and he hated that Liv preferred a whelp like me to my obviously superior older brother. He worked with Captain Tiberius to get me on that scouting party, and we were ambushed. I was held and tortured for two weeks; only when a missionary secured my release did I find out the whole thing had been arranged by....”

He tailed off, clearly embarrassed.

“Say it!” Miss Livesey said bitterly. “By your brother, my father and my brother.”

I looked sharply at her. She stared back at me, then baulked.

“You cannot know that as well!” she exclaimed.

“I deal with sophistry far too often”, I said, thinking for no particular reason of a certain unmissed lounge-lizard. “Tell me one more thing. The victim – what else does he stand accused of?”

“What he did to Hal was bad enough”, she said. “Father actually wanted him to marry me – Justin and Hal are only half-brothers, and Justin had the noble blood in name if not for any use – so he and Berry arranged for him to be alone with me so Justin could force himself on to me.”

The soldier sitting beside her winced, and she pulled him closer.

“I was armed and ready”, she said angrily. “I shot my own brother – only a minor injury, worse luck – then got Justin where it hurt. Unfortunately the blood loss did not kill him; my father transferred him to a regiment bound for the Cape. He will not come back to North Elmham if he has any sense, but if he does I shall be ready for him.”

“The doctor has this phraseology at times like these”, I said, “when there is no good ending to a case. He calls them 'ragged solutions'. This one, I fear, will be very ragged. I shall not stop what you have planned, but I would remind you of Shakespeare's Macbeth. The first crime is always so much easier when one has a specific goal, but things can go downhill very fast if one is not careful.”

“We shall be careful”, she said. “I shall be at the Hall when you come for the ending, and would like to be present when you give Father the bad news.”

“That I an understand”, I said. “I will call at ten o'clock precisely on the day in question.”

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Our meeting with Colonel Livesey that morning was far from as pleasant. He all but screamed that we were doing nothing and that I was totally useless, but at least that allowed me the opportunity to resign from the case and inform him that any discoveries that I made thereafter I would keep to myself. I spoke a sort of truth there; I had not made any discoveries thus far because I did not _know_ what was going to happen. I was ninety-nine point nine per cent sure but I did not _know_.

Randall was not the only member of our family who could seek refuge in sophistry.

The following day there was, to my complete lack of surprise, no warning letter denoting one day to go. Instead someone shot at Captain Antoninus Livesey as he was crossing the fields near the Hall. They missed (perhaps unfortunately but most certainly on purpose). I also received some further documentation from Miss St. Leger in London which was merely proof of what I already knew.

Sometimes I hated being right!

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The next day, and our last in North Elmham. The whole village was tense, and the only surprising thing was that the early missive from the Hall came as a request rather than a demand. Perhaps even Colonel Caesar Livesey was capable of getting the message eventually, if too late. I did not want to go and see the unpleasant squire but I had something important to tell him' something which, I knew, would make his impossibly bad day even worse. 

He greeted us along with his son Antoninus, who still looked pale from his experience the day before. Among other reasons.

“You have heard the news?” the squire said quietly, his tone far reduced from the bluster of our last visit.

I nodded sombrely. Out for his early morning constitutional, the squire had had a terrible shock when crossing the field back to his house. The scarecrow in the field had been replaced with something else – the impaled body of one battered and very dead Captain Tiberius Livesey. The police were now searching frantically for his attackers, but I knew full well that they would never find them. As with my Kincardine case, the consequences of the justice system failing had led local people to take matters back into their own hands, with horrible results. Horrible, yet deserved.

Miss Livesey was I thought keeping an impressively calm countenance, considering that she knew full well what was about to happen.

“I am afraid that the warnings were all too accurate”, I said. “I would like to know what happened to the final one, though.”

The colonel stared at me in confusion.

 _“Accurate?”_ he exclaimed. “They said that my son and heir had done some piffling little thing, then they got poor Berry.”

I at least took comfort that if he truly considered Lieutenant Harden's injuries and his own daughter's attempted rape 'piffling little things', then he merited both what had befallen him and what I was just about to add to it with. I looked to one side.

“I did find something in my investigations”, I said, “and I suppose given what you have just said I should share it with you. It concerns the year-long trip to France that you made just after your marriage, sir.”

He frowned at me.

“I do not follow”, he said.

“I contacted a clever friend of mine in London”, I said, “and he confirmed that your wife had had the birth certificate of Mr. Antoninus Livesey here changed so the date was brought forward three months. That way it would seem that he was your son, whereas he was quite clearly conceived while you were away in France.”

Both the colonel and his son – 'not actually his son' – gasped. I caught the faintest smile on Miss Livesey's face before she masked it.

“Obviously the attacker of Captain Tiberius knew this”, I said, “and cleverly played on your belief that your eldest son was in fact this young... man. Once his elder half-brother was shot at, Captain Tiberius would believe that the danger to his family was past and would relax his guard. Unhappily for him.”

“You must find who did this!” the colonel said with a touch of his former arrogance. “I _demand_ justice!”

I looked at him coldly, then placed the papers that I had brought on the table.

“If I investigate anything in this place”, I said, “I shall begin with your and your family's foul actions while in the Gold Coast. I must tell you, sir, that these papers confirm not only the captain's true date of birth but also conclusive proof of both Lieutenant Tiberius' and your guilt, so I most strongly advise you to recommend to your police friends that they cease their investigations into the death of your son. If they do not, I am quite capable using my connections to have you both cashiered and your names blasted on the front pages of both the Norfolk and London newspapers!”

He gaped at me in horror. I nodded to him and left, John matching me as we made haste to leave this place.

We held each other all the way back to London.

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Postscriptum: Fortunately for the villagers of North Elmham, the shock of justice being delivered proved too much for the Liveseys to bear. Colonel Livesey died barely a year later and his daughter succeeded to his estate having already married her soldier brave. John was able to obtain some treatment for that gentleman which considerable reduced his scarring, but his greatest triumph was surely living in the home of the excuse for a man who had tried to ruin him. He and his wife very generously paid for his half-brother to leave the country, and they had many happy years in the village. 

Lieutenant Justin Harden died in the Second Boer War, a few years after this story is set.

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	19. Case 228: The Muddle & Get Nowhere Murder ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. Following on from their dark case in North Elmham, Sherlock and John make a swift return to Norfolk to face a matter where a man has died with no visible cause of death – and his body has been left across the front of a railway locomotive!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

There were many cases that John and I solved out in the provinces, but this was one of those rare times when upon returning from a distant locality we were headed back towards it almost immediately, just two days later in this instance. Also for one of the strangest cases that we had ever had, to wit a murder where there was no obvious sign how the victim had been murdered.

“Nothing at all?” I asked John incredulously as we again headed up the Great Eastern Railway's main line to Norwich. He shook his head.

“The doctor said a heart-attack, but since his identification we know that he was only just turned thirty”, he said. “His family had no history of heart problems. Let alone what one of London's chief criminals was doing in the middle of Norfolk!”

The dead man had been identified as Mr. Charlie Manning, who had been one of the four gang members responsible for the Merriman's Bank Robbery two months back. Two of the gang had been caught but Mr. Manning and the other member, Miss Sharon Sannay, had been still at large as, more worryingly, had the proceeds of their criminality. The only possible link that might explain why Mr. Manning had turned up dead and sprawled across the buffer-beams of a locomotive of the Midland & Great Northern Railway Company (known locally as the 'Muddle & Get Nowhere') was that Miss Sannay hailed originally from King's Lynn, which lay many miles to the west but also on that company's extensive network†. Indeed we were not many miles from North Elmham and the scene of our most recent case, whose shocking _dénouement_. John and I had not had sex since, both of us feeling more the urge to embrace as often as we could. Manfully in his case, as I told him.

I got a suspicious look for that. I had no idea why.

“Maybe Mr. Manning and his accomplice hid the proceeds of the robbery somewhere in the area”, I said, suppressing a smile at the memory. “According to the newspaper reports the body was only discovered when the driver and fireman came to take their steed out of the shed.”

“That does not leave long, then”, he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Steam engines need to have their fires lit long before they are ready to roll”, he said. “I read it in an engineering magazine once.”

If I was a cruel person I might have made some remark at that point about his reading habits diverting from their usual focus on the social pages of the newspapers and those magazines he kept in his bedside cabinets that I was not supposed to know about. I had actually been relieved to find them when I had, for that was about the time that one magazine had for reasons best known to itself actually serialized a story by Mother of all people, and I had inadvertently read a few lines of the hospital-themed 'E.R.' before I had come to the bit about the rhubarb. And the rather unconventional doctor.

To think that I had once liked rhubarb! Never again!

“It will be interesting to see the scene of the crime”, I said, forcibly dragging my mind away from such horrors. “Perhaps that will tell us more.”

He smiled at me and moved to sit beside me, as our train sped across the East Anglian flatlands.

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We had a long change in Norwich as the Midland & Great Northern Railway (as the name suggests it had been bought out jointly by those two companies) had its station on the far side of the town. Then it was a slow but pleasant ride thought a sparsely-populated landscape until we pulled into Melton Constable. John had said that it was only a village, yet the station was enormous!

“It is a major junction with four lines to different places on the network”, he explained. “They go almost everywhere.”

I did not say it but I knew that the company did not quite go everywhere, as in particular they did not serve the famous village of Walsingham with its dissolved Priory, which I knew John had long wanted to visit and which I had hoped to take in after our North Elmham case. But the dark elements involved therein had made us eager to leave the area and get back to London, because although we could have reached the famous village in a single train ride we would then have had to come back through the scene of the horrors we had just (sort of) resolved. Here however we were now somewhat nearer, and a relatively short carriage would get us to the Priory once this case was done.

 _Always assuming_ , my unhelpful mind added, _that this is not a second case of the Norfolk horrors!_ I was getting like John and always assuming the worst, although in my life the worst seemed to be true far too often!

We found a pleasant enough inn in which to base ourselves and enjoyed a pleasant few hours exploring the village before we returned to the station. The stationmaster Mr. Woodson had on our arrival told us that the driver and fireman of the locomotive which had acquired an unexpected adornment recently were out on duty all day but would be bringing their steed back to the shed by eight o' clock. Sure enough a small saddle-tank locomotive pulled in on time and, its passengers disgorged, the locomotive shunted its coaches into a siding then moved off to its shed. Shortly after the driver and fireman returned to the station where we met them, Mr. Edward Suddery and Mr. Brough Cole. They were strikingly similar men of about forty years of age, except that Mr. Cole had brown hair and Mr. Suddery was blond (I later found out that they were cousins).

“I would have liked to ask if there is a 'Veni' and/or a 'Vidi'”, John smiled as we all sat down.

The two railwaymen looked at him as if he were quite mad! 

“My friend is referring to the famous saying by Julius Caesar”, I explained. “I came, I saw, I conquered, of which 'vici' is the last part.”

Mr. Suddery smiled.

“I get it”, he said. “No, Vick is one of two engines, sir, and the other one's called Alpha. They’re the only engines with names as far as I know.”

“Neither of you knew the dead man, I suppose”, I said. They both shook their heads.

“But he may have come from the church, sir”, Mr. Cole offered.

We both stared at him in surprise.

“How could you know that?” I asked.

“There's a path that used to connect the houses south of the line with the Bell Inn just beyond the church, sir”, Mr. Suddery said. “'Course the railway cut it off but people still use it; you know what they’re like. The trains don’t run that fast into and out of the station, so it's not really a problem.”

 _Except for the late Mr. Charlie Manning_ , I thought.

“Why could he not have been coming from the pub on the other side?” John asked.

They both looked at him incredulously.

“A _stranger_ in the village, sir?” Mr. Cole asked incredulously. “Big Betty at the Bell's got a gob the size of the Wash! It'd have been news at the station when we got back that evening; I read that they reckon he died some time during the night. But we both saw he had a lot of mud on his shoes; the path down the tracks is always slippery.”

They were very observant, I thought.

“Thank you for your time”, I said. “I only wish that there was more to go on with this case.”

Both men looked at each other for some reason.

“Begging your pardon, sir”, Mr. Suddery said, “but there's something we didn't tell Constable Keene. He's..... he's not nice to folks round here, and it wasn't much anyway, really.”

“What is it?” I asked. “I promise that we shall keep anything that you tell us in confidence.”

“Sid lit our Vick up at three as usual, and we clocked on at just before six”, Mr. Cole said. “That was when we found the body. But.... when you work on the same engine day in day out, you get a sort of feel for it. I asked Eddie and he felt the same. Someone had been over Vick looking for something. Don't know how but.... we both just felt it.”

“Thank you”, I said, handing them each a coin that made their eyebrows rise in synchronicity. “You have been most helpful.”

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It was already dark but the surprises of that day were not yet over. We arrived back at our inn to find the local vicar, a Reverend Mark Arras, waiting for us.

“I heard that you were in the village”, he said, “and given what happened this evening I thought that I had better come and see you.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Mrs. Smith the sexton's wife came to see me”, he said. “She and Elisha were having dinner when a lady called round, asking about someone she was trying to find in the area called 'Vicky'. They did not stay long, but she said that Elisha rushed out once she was gone without saying where he was going.”

“Why is that important?” John asked.

“Remember the locomotive name”, I reminded him. “This may be the villainous Miss Sannay, in which case she may indeed have been responsible for Mr. Manning's demise. Although how she killed him without leaving any marks, the Lord alone knows.”

“Mrs. Smith said that Elisha headed off towards the church”, the vicar said. “I do not know why; there will be no-one there this time of a Monday evening.”

I stared at him.

“It is Monday”, I said stupidly.

He looked at me rather oddly. Frankly I did not blame him. 

“Yes”, he said warily. “And?”

“We need to get to the church at once”, I said, rising to my feet. “Although I fear that we may be too late.”

“I shall come with you”, the vicar said.

“You had better not”, I said. “Because we are taking our guns, and we may be facing a criminal who will shoot first and not ask questions at all!”

He paled, and we left him there.

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St. Peter's Church was an impressive building, and we approached it warily especially as the door was slightly open. It seemed wrong to bring a weapon into such a holy place, but then I was all but certain that our quarry here would be armed.

“There!” John hissed.

I followed his pointing finger and saw what I had feared; the body of the sexton lying across the aisle not far from the altar. Above us the tower disappeared into darkness, but I knew or at least could sense movement up there. I tensed while John examined the sexton; fortunately the angle ensured that he was safe.

“Alive”, he whispered, and even that sounded far too loud in this cavernous place. I gestured to the gap where the bell-ropes descended from on high.”

“Cover that”, I whispered back. “Shoot if you see anything move.”

He nodded. I moved silently around the side of the church, keeping clear of any line of sight from the tower until I could reach the nearest of the tied bell-ropes. Carefully I untied it, making sure not to tauten it, then yanked on it with all my might. 

The sound of a church bell rang out impossibly loud from above us, followed by a scream. There was a brief sound of scrambling, then a body plummeted to the floor hitting it with a horrible thud and, worst of all, head first. Even before John went forward, I knew.

Miss Sharon Sannay was dead.

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“I do not understand”, the vicar said as we sat down over some welcome coffee and marshmallows.

“I do not have all the information”, I said, “but I think that I can piece together enough to make a decent picture. Miss Sannay and Mr. Manning would have been rich beyond the dreams of avarice with the loot from their bank robbery, but alas! criminals do not like to share. Miss Sannay, coming from this county, decided to hide the loot in a place that she was sure would never be searched – the belfry of a church. She then lured Mr. Manning here, making sure to do it on a Saturday.”

“Saturday?” the vicar asked. “The man was killed on Sunday, surely?”

“She was cunning”, I said. “She knocked him out and tied him up, then left him there into Sunday morning. I can only assume that she did not want to kill him in person, because she found a particularly evil way so to do. On the Sabbath of course your bell-ringers rang as they always do and always will to the glory of God, and the man trapped in the tower was driven to his death by the dreadful noise.”

The vicar gasped in shock.

“She then had the excellent idea of moving the body to the locomotive shed”, I said. “I know most people would think that this is where my theory falls apart, but as you saw Miss Sannay was a formidably strong woman while Mr. Manning was but a small man. She was able to carry him to the shed and place him across the buffers of one of the locomotives. She knew enough about railways to only do it after the fire-lighter had been round, as she would then have three hours.”

“Why did she do that?” John asked.

“If you look at the bells of the church”, I said, “you will see that each has a name. It was I suppose ironic that the one which I used to secure her death was the one that she herself used in a way, 'Vici'. Knowing that the railway had a locomotive of that name based nearby, she hoped that someone might link the two and confuse matters still further while she made her escape. Instead of which she is currently in Hell with Satan, where she belongs.”

“I suppose that means that my poor bell-ringers killed Mr. Manning”, the vicar said sadly.

“Not really”, I said. “No more than say the locomotive could be held responsible if she placed Mr. Manning's unconscious body under its wheels. He was killed by Miss Sannay as surely as if she had shot him herself.”

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The next day dawned bright and breezy unlike the grey of the traumatic day before, and it was a perfect day to make the short trip to Walsingham which John loved. There are precious few pleasures greater in this world than seeing the man you love smiling.

All right, there are some – but I could wait until we got back to London for those! Or at least for the long train ride back!

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_Notes:_   
_† Of the 180 miles of track that once served many towns across Norfolk, only the few between Cromer and Sheringham survive today as part of the national network. However Sheringham to Holt is part of the heritage North Norfolk Railway and there are tentative plans to extend on to Melton Constable._

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	20. Case 229: The Adventure Of The Boys' Camp ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. Back to London and, annoyingly, back to a certain lounge-lizard who has STILL not been hit by an asteroid despite all John's prayers. A German count is causing problems for the already tense Anglo-German relations – but what are his real motives?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the 'saving' of Count von und zu Grafenstein.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson M.D.]_

Following the Franco-Prussian War of 'Seventy-One there was as I have mentioned before a slow and not always steady _rapprochement_ in Anglo-French relations and a steady if not always slow worsening in Anglo-German ones. Berlin made great play of our two Nations' Germanic backgrounds with Anglo-Saxons and Teutons sharing a common heritage, but that increasingly rang hollow as from his accession in 'Eighty-Eight the ever more belligerent Kaiser Wilhelm the Second seemed determined to upset the Continental apple-cart one way or another. This case more than any other brought home to me that common heritage or not, we had diverged sharply from our Teutonic cousins in some ways, and I hoped that an Englishman would never do anything as evil as Count von und zu Grafenstein did.

Then I look at Sherlock's brother Randall, and I wonder.....

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We had arrived back from our second case in Norfolk within a week, and Sherlock had very generously taken me to the famous shrine at Walsingham for a day before we returned to Melton Constable and the following day onto London. I noted (but did not comment on the fact) that by returning for another night in Melton he avoided a route that would have take us through North Elmham, scene of our previous and decidedly disturbing case where we saw all too clearly what happens when the justice system fails. I know that that disturbed him even more than it did me, because he felt that since he always took the lead in our couplings that I might in some way feel a victim at times. He cared for me so much that that was an impossibility, but although we had sex on the train back to London – we had to pass the time somehow – we definitely took things easy for the rest of that month which was mercifully quiet.

It was I suppose symbolic that All Fool's Day saw the arrival of our least favourite lounge-lizard to Baker Street. He arrived in a foul mood because Mrs. Malone had caught him marching up the stairs without having wiped his feet, and unfortunately for him (because she knew him!) had had her pistol to hand. He had been made to march back down like a recalcitrant schoolboy and then wait while one of the maids cleaned up the mess he had made (I would have tempted to have given him a dustpan and brush, and have made him do it himself!). He slouched into our rooms, scowled at me and sat down in the fireside chair.

“You may sit”, Sherlock said icily. 

“I do not have time for niceties!” his brother snapped. “I am here about this dratted Grafenstein.”

Sherlock looked at me expectantly. If there was even the merest hint of a snarky comment about my very occasional and incredibly rare glancing at the social pages then I..... would be annoyed. There might even be Pouting!

“Count Helmut von und zu Grafenstein is cousin to the German Kaiser”, I said. “Also a close friend; they grew up together and the count was instrumental in standing up for Wilhelm against his father.”

I had felt sorry when the Kaiser's father, the Queen's son-in-law Frederick the Third, had died after ruling for only a few months some eight years back. It had reminded me at the time of the Tudors and the untimely death of Prince Arthur, which led to the country falling under the eventually tyrannical rule of his younger brother Henry. I had felt at the time that Emperor Frederick's death might be an omen, and sadly time would prove me all to right as it so often did when I thought the worse.

“He has a place in Richmond where all the snobs live, down by the Thames”, our visitor said. “I think that he is up to something.”

“I could name someone else who had a house in Richmond”, Sherlock said airily. “Someone not a million miles away from here.....”

“That is a _government_ house!” his brother said frostily.

“Potato, potahto”, I muttered. That got me another death-glare.

“Have you any idea to what the count is 'up?” Sherlock asked dryly. “Preferably before I drag John all the way over to somewhere that he does not like?”

I blushed slightly at his thoughtfulness. One of our first cases, that of The Aluminium Crotch back in – gulp – 'Seventy-Seven had been in that town, and unfortunately my surgery still had its second office there. I was no longer compelled to spend long periods of time there like I once had done but I still attended patients in the area from time to time, and two decades on I can safely say that they had not improved in their manners. A militaristic German count would, like the late and unlamented Colonel Aberdour, probably have fitted right in there.

“He pays for a Boys' Camp that does year-round activities there”, Mr. Randall Holmes said. “That is about all I know.”

Sherlock just looked at him.

“What?” his brother said testily.

“You are keeping something from me”, Sherlock said sharply. “What is it, Randall?”

“Nothing of import”, our visitor said. “There was a bit of an odd incident when one of the instructors at the camp drowned the other week. He took three boys out too far and they all got into difficulties. There is an island by the camp and the river currents can be erratic, or so I was told, and two of the boys nearly drowned as well.”

Sherlock thought about that for a moment.

“Was there an investigation into this man's death?” he asked.

“Yes, but they decided that it was accidental”, he said.

That was the moment when I began to get nervous. I knew Sherlock too well by this time; that was his Very Uneasy Silence.

“We need to get down to Richmond at once!” he said firmly.

“Why?” his brother demanded. Sherlock ignored him.

“John”, he said urgently, “what is the quickest way to get to Richmond?”

“It depends on whether this place of the Count's is near the railway station or not”, I said. Our visitor shook his head.

“Nearly two miles away”, he said. 

“Then a carriage would be faster”, I said confidently.

Sherlock bounded out of his chair and was at the door in seconds, grabbing his coat, hat and stick before disappearing out of the door. His brother and I scrambled after him and I noted that my friend had not even wasted a few seconds by calling for a maid to summon a cab. This was serious!

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Unhappily, despite our cab-driver putting on a burst of speed that nearly had me feeling sea-sick as we rocked and rolled our way to Richmond, we were to be too late. As we passed over the Thames into Surrey there was a small newspaper stand just the other side of the bridge, and both Mr. Randall Holmes and I nearly pitched out of the cab when Sherlock without warning yelled for the driver to stop. I wondered what the hell was going on – until he pointed grimly to the banner headline:

'Boys In Recent Drowning Case All Found Dead'.

We stared at one another in shock.

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“All right”, Mr. Randall Holmes said. “What do you know, Sherlock?”

He must have been in control of himself, I thought not at all cattily, as he had avoided Sherlock's hated nickname (that of course got me a sharp look from the mind-reader in the vicinity). We had spent the hours after the tragedy looking around Richmond and learning what we could of what had happened. It was all rather sordid; the boys had left a single suicide note stating that they had been molested by the instructor, and had waited until he had taken them swimming to attack and drown him. Unable to live with what they had done, they had then taken their own lives. It was just tragic.

We had walked around the edge of the Boys' Camp but, on Sherlock's advice, had not gone in. It was as one might have expected a subdued place but the few things that were going on looked perfectly normal and all the boys looked healthy if not happy. Then they could hardly be the latter just now.

Sherlock thought for a moment before speaking. When he did, his words seemed strange indeed.

“Where does the camp get its water from?”

His brother looked at him as if he were quite mad. For possibly the only time in my existence I might have been tempted to agree with him, but I knew my love and was sure that there was method in his madness. Somewhere.

 _“What?”_ Mr. Randall Holmes asked incredulously.

“Where does the camp get its water from?” Sherlock repeated.

“The river”, his brother said, still looking confused. “They have some sort of treatment thing, all very high technology. Why?”

“Randall”, Sherlock said, “there is something that you must do.”

He held a warning finger up before his brother had even got his mouth open to object. I was impressed.

“Get one of the major newspapers to run a story about some pollutant being discharged into the river upstream of here”, he said, “and have one of your doctors test a few random people in the town. Meanwhile get Luke to round up the parents of the three dead boys and tell them that their sons may have been poisoned, and that that may have affected their mental states.”

“Why?” his brother demanded. “Come to that, why do you not want me to speak to the parents?”

“I rather think that they have suffered enough”, Sherlock said dryly. “Tell Luke that he needs to get at least one and preferably all three of the parents to agree to a _post mortem_ \- I know they do not happen after supposedly confirmed suicides but I fear that these were not suicides.”

“Murder?” I gasped. “What do you think the doctors will find?”

“I cannot say that”, he said, looking at me. “You know that if this goes any further, it would prejudice the findings if the doctors had been told 'look for X' then lo and behold! they had found X. I know what they _should_ find and if they do, Randall, I must warn you that your bad week is about to get a whole lot worse.”

His brother glared at him but hurried away to do his bidding.

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I should just have some extra pages printed starting 'Sherlock was right'. I will not divulge the chemical's name but the three _post mortems_ found large amounts of a mind-altering chemical in all three boys' bodies. It was clear that they had been drugged to the point that they were open to the suggestion to kill; I thought chillingly of a recent article which had dwelt on the fact that the young had yet to acquire morality and would in many ways make perfect murderers.

Sherlock told me that he had been suspicious from the start of the case, and after he had seen the supposed suicide note those suspicions had increased as he had spotted that it had been written by a left-handed writer. Sure enough later investigations showed that all three dead boys were right-handed. Also he had noted the use of language was that of an older writer. 

Mr. Randall Holmes made some swift inquiries into other Boys' Camps around the country and found three more that were the recipients of German funding, all in secret and through a number of routes that ran through other countries. All were immediately closed down. Because of his diplomatic immunity it proved impossible to bring charges against the Count, but Sherlock very fairly sent him a letter stating that if he wished to save himself then it might be an idea to donate very large sums of money to the families of his four victims. Instead the villain decided to decamp in secret to his native Bavaria, thus removing one stain on the English landscape.

Permanently. On the train down to Dover he encountered a pleasant English nanny also heading to the port. By the time his train pulled into the Harbour Station Mrs. Kyndley was already on her way back to London having directly removed him. I am sure that now in the 1930s with so many fit young German men and boys brainwashed by the vile Herr Hitler, the reader can understand my reluctance to dwell on this particular case.

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	21. Case 230: The Adventure Of Lady Violet's Chauffeur ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. Sherlock and John set out on a short vacation to the Lakes where they hope to assist the Selkirk twins with a 'problem tenant'. They also meet one of the most ferocious grande dames ever who, amazingly, does not simper at Sherlock!  
> Just testing to see if you would believe such an outrageous lie. Even Lady Violet does it, I'm afraid.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

If there was one example in my life of how the Good Lord sometimes arranged matters less than perfectly – all right, _outside_ of my own family! - then it had to be the Selkirk twins. Balin and Balan Selkirk were almost exactly alike (Balin had hazel eyes and one freckle on his nose while Balan had light brown eyes and two freckles, but one could hardly march right up to one of them and stare until one had detected those details). They had grown up in what should have been a happy family home in Scotland until the age of twelve when they had reached puberty and they had developed feelings - _for each other!_ This had led to their being thrown out of said happy family home, and it was their sole good fortune that their parents knew my stepbrother Campbell's father Sir Jameson Kerr and had naturally complained to him of their 'terrible sufferings'. Campbell was twenty-four at the time and he asked his father to rescue the twins after which he brought them to his new house in London. That had been in 'Sixty-Eight; Sir Jameson was then ill with the illness that would claim his life just five months later, upon which Campbell would discover that the 'London business interests' which he had just inherited was in fact a chain of molly-houses!

As I have said more than once, sometimes the veneer of Victorian respectability was a thin one.

The Selkirks had therefore spent their formative years in an all-male environment, and having grown to be solid lads they were allowed to start 'work' once they were eighteen. Naturally being twins they had certain advantages, and when I met them I quickly came to realize that what they had was the truest of true loves. Both Campbell and Sweyn knew better than to part them and if one needed treatment then the other would always be there, whether in Baker Street or at their molly-house. Even then the one not being treated would be anxious for his twin, although they were at ease in our presence as they knew that they could then be openly affectionate towards each other. Even John sniffed at their absolute devotion – although being John it was of course a manly sniff!

It had long been the dream of the twins to have a small hotel or a guest-house somewhere in the Lakes, and recently that dream had come much closer thanks to the year's service which they had done for the late Miss Horatia House. This elderly lady, knowing that she was not long for this world and having unexpectedly inherited the family wealth (along of course with a sudden increase in the number of relatives 'concerned' for her well-being!) had determined to make her remaining time in this world as enjoyable as possible, and had hired the twins as servants to do everything for her including doing all the housework – _naked!_ It had been a strictly 'look but do not touch' arrangement and she had paid them most handsomely for their time as well as leaving them each a part of her estate in her will, to the annoyance of her many relatives. I had assisted them in securing that bequest, and Sweyn had let them move into one of his molly-houses to live rent-free so that they could amass the remaining funds needed. They had therefore been able to purchase a small guest-house on the shores of Lake Windermere and had come round to say their goodbyes only two weeks ago.

Before leaving the saucy boys had suggested that they would do _anything_ to show John how grateful they were for his treating him over the years. I had not known that he could turn that red!

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Coincidentally the missive from the twins arrived the same day as another one from Westmorland, this latter from our friend Sergeant Valiant LeStrade. His wife was now expecting his eighth child - _eighth, the dog!_ \- and he reminded us that he would welcome us back to the area any time. I had been mulling over a short break somewhere for as well the very unpleasant cases in North Elmham and Richmond I had had a government scandal that had meant three days of meetings with the tiresome Randall who, if he kept on his present course, might one day persuade me to tell John that he _could_ install those man-traps which he was always asking for!

I re-read the letter from the twins and frowned.

“Problems?” John asked, forking me over two of his bacon rashers (I was in a generous mood so I had allowed him to keep the other two).

“Nothing that cannot be resolved by my fucking you until you scream for mercy”, I said absently.

He looked at me uncertainly. I had been about to do that one time, and angel that he was he had suggested that we finish breakfast first. Bacon and the man I loved; I was so blessed!

“It is from Balin and Balan”, I said. “They are having problems with one of their guests who, they think, is hiding from someone.”

“A criminal?” he asked.

“Even in this day and age that would be a good place to hide out, assuming that the fellow uses a false name”, I said. “He is of part-Italian extraction, they say, so he is a long way from home.”

I thought about that for a moment as I enjoyed my (and half of John's) bacon.

“Sergeant LeStrade has invited us up to his home which is not far away from Wndermere, at least as the crow flies”, I said. “I think that we should spend some time in Westmorland, first sorting out the twins' problem and then enjoying beautiful Kirkby Stephen.”

“That sounds very enjoyable”, he said. “The surgery will not mind me disappearing off for a few weeks, I am sure.”

I thought privately that for all they had helped his early career the Bloomsbury Surgery had done very well out of John, especially since he had become a famous author writing the adventures of his brilliant yet supremely modest friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. They had gained many new patients who sought the _cachet_ of attending the surgery where a famous author worked, and I had already had to have a Word on one occasion when I had felt they had been abusing his good nature rather too much. 

“We went to Windermere ten years ago to conclude the Easington House affair”, he said. “It was on a branch from Oxenholme where most trains stop. It would be a nice ride up there.”

“Indeed”, I said. “For you it will be a very hard ride, because I will be fucking you most of the way there!”

The ability to leave him suddenly breathless. Still very enjoyable!

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The branch-line train to Windermere still departed from a small bay platform right next to where our main-line train came to a stop at Oxenholme Station. Or as John put it, several hundred miles away in the next but one county.

“I cannot believe you!” he moaned, tears in his eyes as I helped him into a compartment. “The boys will know just what we did, you know.”

“I am sure that they have done much more with each other”, I said affably. “I find it strange that in their letter they are remarkably circumspect about their guest; they only say that he is young and part-Italian, but has come to them from Yorkshire.”

John raised an eyebrow at me.

“A roundabout journey”, he said.

He sank down onto the chair, then yelped in pain. I tried not to smirk, but from the glare that I got, I likely failed.

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“So tell me about your rogue Italian, boys.”

The boys (I do not know why I call them that when they were both past forty) were almost in each other's laps, and both looked relieved that we had come.

“It is like this, sirs”, Balan said. “Last month we had a new tenant, a Mr. Francis Poncherello. He had obtained a job at the local garage and... it is just weird!”

“Go on”, I said.

“He used to be the chauffeur to the Grantham family over in Yorkshire”, Balin said. “They come here from time to time although Earl Patrick has a house high above the town, or rather he has a friend who has. They are certainly far too grand for us!”

“Ponch was not dismissed or anything”, Balan said, “but he was very cagey when we asked about his time at Downton Abbey. In our past profession we.... well, we soon got to know if something was ‘off’. And that was before his stalker turned up.”

“Stalker?” I asked, surprised. Both men nodded.

“First time he came here he was often out and about, in the town or going along the waterfront”, Balin said. “But since this person has appeared on the scene he keeps to his room, going straight to and from his work.”

I stared sharply at him.

“Person?” I asked. “Not a man?”

“We have only ever seen them at a distance”, Balan said, “but I think that it might be a woman. They wear a long-coat and have short hair, but something in the build....”

I thought wryly that these two gentlemen more than most should know a man when they saw one. At any distance!

“Ponch was grateful when we let him leave for work via the back”, Balin added. “There is an alleyway that leads around about and into the town; his watcher is always lurking around the shelters on the waterfront.”

“Why have you not tried to apprehend them yourself?” John asked.

“Because they suspect that this watcher may be linked to the Granthams”, I said, “and that might lead to problems if they are.”

He saw my point.

“I suppose that Earl Patrick does have a reputation for vengefulness”, he said, “although I have heard that he is not well of late. His wife Countess Violet is on the other hand one of the most fearsome ladies in society, or so I hear!”

I caught the slight smiles on the twins' faces as they too had spotted his slip over the social pages, which as we all knew he hardly ever read. He looked at us suspiciously.

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Many cases of mine that were interesting in some aspect or other were never written up by John because they fizzled out into nothing. This one did not quite do that, but the answer to our problems was presented to us just the days after our arrival when we were Commanded to attend on Violet, Countess of Grantham in one of the larger hotels on the waterfront. I did wonder why not her family's friend's house, and wondered even more when we arrived to find not only her waiting for us but someone else as well.

The countess was indeed one of the grandest of the _grande dames_ in society just then. Even the Prince of Wales himself had been rebuked by her for his actions, and at a ball no less! She was erect and haughty, and looked us both over before nodding approvingly. I would have commented on how straight my friend was standing up had I not been doing exactly the same myself!

Her companion was very different, a fresh-faced blond fellow of about twenty years of age who face did not betoken any great intelligence, but who was I supposed handsome in a magazine front sort of way. Not a patch on the man next to me, of course.

The one rolling his eyes as a certain countess simpered at me! I still had it!

“Thank you for coming, gentlemen”, Lady Violet said as we sat down. “This is.... somewhat irregular, but I do hope that you will bear with me.”

“Of course, ma'am”, I said.

She simpered at me again. John fidgeted for some reason.

“It concerns family”, she said with a sigh”, which, as I am sure you were wondering, was why I did not have you up to the house. Hugh's servants are adequate but they do tend to listen at keyholes, which given the subject matter is not a risk I wished to take.”

She gestured to her companion.

“This is Mr. Jonathan Baker”, she said, “my nephew. My youngest sister Thomasina, a flibbertigibbet if ever there was one, married an American for some strange and inexplicable reason and they went back to his home country; I do not remember where but that, like their Nation, is unimportant. They provided my daughter-in-law of whom I am inordinately not fond, so they have a lot of making up to do as far as I am concerned!”

She drew a deep breath.

“Thomasina died late last year, and since her husband had most inconsiderately already passed and his family showed no interest in the boy, I had him brought to Downton. While he was there, certain.... developments occurred which I need you to remedy.”

“The problem begun around my daughter-in-law's sister Samantha, who was visiting when Jonathan arrived. Samantha – she calls herself 'Sammy' for some strange reason – developed what I believe is in modern parlance called 'a crush' on him. A strange term; I hardly think that flattening someone in any way demonstrates one's affections, but then that is Americans for you.”

“That in itself would have been bad enough, and I had hoped that matters would resolve themselves when the pestilential woman went back to her native country. Unfortunately when Jonathan showed no inclination to return her favours – he at least showed judgement in that – she then turned her attentions on my new chauffeur, an Italian gentleman called Mr. Francis Poncherello. I really wish that they would use sensible English names but then that is foreigners for you!”

“As I am sure that you gentlemen can appreciate, seeing someone so far below one's social class – well, it was very clearly Not Acceptable. Unfortunately the modern generation has somehow convinced itself that it must have whatever it wants, regardless of social niceties. I was left with no choice but to dispatch Mr. Poncherello here and I very generously obtained him a post with a garage which my family has links with. Well, we own it if truth be told but he does not know that.”

I was a little lost by this point, and there was definitely another simper in the offing.

“You have not brought this Samantha to Windermere, then?” I asked.

She snorted at that, and somehow simpered at one and the same time. I was impressed.

“She too has this irritating habit of listening at keyholes”, she said, “and has tracked him down to a guest-house here. Fortunately she is due to go back to her own country soon; I suppose that paying her to take my daughter-in-law with her would be a bad thing, although part of me is tempted. No, that is why I brought Jonathan with me.”

I could see that John looked as lost as I did at this point. Which was sort of comforting.

“So what did you need us for, ma'am?” I asked politely.

“Several things really”, she said. “Of course to see you in person; dear Patrick positively eschews London these days and I myself am not overly fond of the place, so I knew that there was little chance of my meeting you there. When I found through that wonderful Miss St. Leger that you were heading up this way, I accelerated my own plans and hastened here.”

“You know Miss St. Leger?” I asked, surprised. She nodded.

“Such a marvellous source of information about all the people that I frankly cannot stand”, she smiled. “There is something quite wonderful about talking to someone utterly loathsome and letting slip into the dinner-table conversation that you know their darkest secrets. _Most_ pleasant!”

She sighed happily. 

“Then of course I wanted to ask you about your mother's wonderful writings”, she said. “That latest work of hers about Ernest, The Fastest Milkman In The West who delivered somewhat more than a pint of milk to many of the ladies on his round. That was inspired by our village milkman's replacement, a handsome young buck who..... well, he had to leave for South America in rather a hurry as things turned out.”

I was amazed! Someone else who liked my mother's works? Had the world gone mad without telling me?”

“But mainly I needed to get you to accompany Jonathan here”, the countess said.

“Accompany me where, my lady?” Mr. Baker asked.

“To Copenhagen House, where Mr. Poncherello is staying”, the countess said. 

We all looked at her in confusion. She sighed heavily.

“Gentlemen”, she said, “we…. ladies of a certain age have a lot of time on our hands to see things that others do not. For example, when last summer the family decamped to the seaside for some strange reason, just after Jonathan's arrival, I noted that two people were looking at him in his new swimming-costume rather inappropriately. One of course was Samantha who was quite open about it, but the other was Mr. Poncherello.”

“Mr. Baker blushed fiercely.

“My lady....” he began.

“I am middle-aged, not blind!” the countess said sharply. “He not only looked at you but, in your efforts to avoid Samantha – which I quite understand – you were looking at him when he had trouble starting the car† on the way home.”

The young man looked mortified!

“I want you to promise me one thing”, the countess said. “I am leaving for Downton by the mid-day train tomorrow. Please do not do anything.... untoward until I have left the county.”

“Yes, my lady! I promise!”

She smiled at him. And simpered at me!

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We escorted Mr. Baker to Copenhagen House then I telegraphed to Miss St. Leger in London for some help. Impressively she found a contact in Kendal who were able to provide three 'heavies' who visited Windermere two days later and explained to a certain female that her presence in the area was no longer required. Or else!

Balin and Balan later told us that she was not seen ever again. While Mr. Baker and Mr. Poncherello went to the latter's room the afternoon after our meeting and were not seen for the rest of that week! Honestly, some men these days!

What?

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_Notes:_   
_† An electric car, as most were at this time. Like the modern equivalents they suffered from very short ranges, but they were more status symbols than of any real use. For now._

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	22. Interlude: Mrs. Robinson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. A lady returns home.

_[Narration by Violet, Countess of Grantham]_

It really had been most pleasant, seeing Mr. Sherlock Holmes in the flesh for the first time. Of course I did not see him 'in the flesh' as I would have liked, but one could not have everything. Although perhaps the efficient Miss St. Leger might manage to obtain a photograph for me….

As I sat in my private first-class coach on the way back across the Pennines, I mused on the strangeness of the way in which the Good Lord arranges the world at times. When I did finally ascend to Heaven I would have more than a few questions to put to Him. That my nephew was attracted to a.... to a Man seemed frankly bizarre, but then after this terrible business with Mr. Oscar Wilde everyone knew that it happened. Of course everyone had known beforehand but it is one of the great strengths of the Victorian family that they had not actually _known_. That made it.... not acceptable, but tolerable.

Now I had to get Patrick to agree to give Jonathan a sum that would enable him and his 'friend' to live adequately. Honestly, the American nephew-cum-ward and the Italian mechanic – it sounded like one of dear Aelfrida's wonderful stories!

I made a note of that in my notebook so I could pass it on in my next letter to her†. Hopefully she would have a manuscript to send me; they were not only enjoyable but most effective when dealing with irksome family members, all of whom always seemed to remember pressing engagements elsewhere whenever I started to read from them. An excellent way of clearing a room, I always found.

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As I had feared, Patrick was less than amenable to my suggestion for a settlement on dear Jonathan. I really had hoped that he would have been more kindly disposed, but of course I had a back-up plan.

“I do wish that we could make a settlement on the boy”, I said, “especially as his parents left him nothing. But I quite understand your point of view, my dear.”

“Good”, he said, returning to behind his newspaper.

“By the by”, I said casually, “I took a walk the other day. Down Hargreaves Lane.”

He was good, but I detected a definite movement behind his shield.

“Oh?” he said, trying and failing to sound disinterested. His voice being an octave higher than usual was also something of a giveaway.

“Yes”, I said. “I saw that we have a new tenant in the cottage there, and when I asked one of the locals told me that she was a Mrs. Robinson. Strange; I do not remember you mentioning her moving onto the estate.”

“Well, she needed a place to stay”, he said, his voice now definitely edgy.

“I am sure that she did”, I said. “When I spoke to one of the men there he thought that he had seen _you_ going into the place. Of course I am sure that he was mistaken as you could have had no reason to do such a thing. Perhaps I had better go back tomorrow and ask him ag....”

“How much did you want to settle on this nephew of yours?” he said quickly.

I smiled and named a figure which made him go pale before he nodded. He could afford it, especially if it stopped me making 'inquiries'!

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_Notes:_   
_† Later written up as CHIPS. It stood for 'Chauffeur Having Impossibly Prolonged Schlong!'_

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	23. Case 231: The Adventure Of The Hard Lesson ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. After a nice relaxing time in eastern Westmorland, Sergeant Valiant LeStrade asks Sherlock and John to look into a curious matter of misbehaviour in the south of his county. It proves to be a painfully hard lesson for someone – but perhaps with long-term benefits?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson. M.D.]_

After our happy case with the Selkirks in Windermere we moved across country to eastern Westmorland, home of our friend Sergeant Valiant LeStrade and his wife Jane. Neither of us was surprised that she was expecting Mini LeStrade Mark Eight; Sherlock and I had both joked that the muscular sergeant seemed set on repopulating the area personally! We also spent some wonderful time with our godsons Tristram and Torre, now both eight years old, and Sherlock nearly cried there and then when Tristram called him 'Uncle Sherlock'.

We also had what I supposed was a predictable demonstration of the effectiveness of the local gossip network when we were invited back to Addleton Hall, where two years before we had exposed the evil machinations of Mr. Edgar Millebrande in his murder of his brother and sister-in-law/lover (ugh!). The now twelve-year-old young Squire Mark would I thought hardly hold us in high regard for dispatching his uncle to the nether regions even if the villain had killed his father, but I was proven wrong. The squire, who was taking an increasing role in affairs under the guardianship of his lawyers, thanked us most heartily and offered to put us up any time we were in the area. There is hope for the youth of today, it seems.

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As with all holidays our time passed far too fast, but on our last day Sergeant LeStrade approached us. He had that awful look that I had come to dread seeing on our friends' faces, the one that always presaged them asking a favour of some sort of another. And as I was thinking the worst, I was of course proven right.

Sherlock really needed to get something for that cough!

“A rather odd case has come up right in the south of the county, sirs”, he said. “It is not my area but I know the local sergeant, a good fellow called Pickering, and I think that he could do with some help. Especially as it concerns the local squire.”

“We defer to your judgement in such matters, sergeant”, Sherlock said. “John, how might we best get there?”

“You had best not try, sir”, the sergeant cut in, much to my surprise. “There is a railway-station but the service is terrible. I can drive you there from here much quicker, and I am sure Pickering could give you a lift to Settle so that you can get back south easily.”

“Thank you, sergeant”, Sherlock smiled. “We shall go to this place... what is it called?”

“Kirkby Lonsdale, sir.”

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It might seem strange given that this was still the Railway Age that somewhere with its own station was so inaccessible, but the sergeant was quite right about our destination. The towns of Sedbergh and Kirkby Lonsdale were served by a branch running down from the London & North Western Railway's main line near Tebay, but that particular railway line was what was known at the time as a 'blocking branch'. When in the early seventies the Midland Railway had been seeking its own route to Scotland it had first tried to push up towards these towns by opening a branch to the village of Ingleton, some miles south of Kirkby Lonsdale. The London & North Western had retaliated by building its own Ingleton branch, complete with its own Ingleton Station. Even though a viaduct had been built across the valley between the two stations barely half a mile apart passenger trains never used it, so fierce was the rivalry between the two companies. Passengers would have to take their luggage and walk across the viaduct by foot, and often the train that they were aiming to catch would quite deliberately depart before they got there! 

The consequence of all these shenanigans was that the Midland tried for its own route to Scotland and won permission to build the famous Settle & Carlisle line which passes through (or as we had seen, within two miles of) Kirkby Stephen, only for the London & North Western, seeing that its move had failed, to offer to allow through traffic on the Ingleton branch after all. The ultimate irony, as I have mentioned before, was that the Midland then tried to abandon their new route only for parliament to insist they build it to serve a largely empty if stunningly beautiful area. 

The effect of the railway on towns was something I was in two minds about, something that came back to mind when I saw that both Sedbergh and Kirkby Lonsdale had been largely unchanged by the railway and were still quiet, sleepy small towns where the increasingly hectic pace of places like London seemed a world away. Our destination was particularly pleasant, and we said goodbye to Sergeant LeStrade (after we had given him generous presents for our godsons' bank accounts) when he had handed us over to his colleague.

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Sergeant Wyatt Pickering was one of those policemen who, annoyingly, was far too young-looking for his post. He was keen and seemed bright enough however, and was clearly glad to have us in his town. I did wonder if for some reason he dyed his hair, but I later found out that the rather shocking yellow was a family thing that he shared with his brother Wesley who he pointed out to us as he worked at the tavern at which we were staying.

“I am hoping you can solve this little mystery of ours, sirs”, the sergeant said politely (I knew that he had gained extra points with Sherlock for including me in the conversation, as so few people did). “It is only a small thing but somewhere as quiet as our little town does not need the fuss.”

“Your colleague mentioned that it concerned the local squire?” Sherlock asked.

The young sergeant's face looked as if he had just stepped in something unpleasant.

“Bad thing there”, he said ruefully. “Not the squire Mr. Thomas who is a decent fellow for all he shouts too much, but his son Mr. Debonair.”

We both looked at him.

“Mr. _what? _” I asked, thinking that I must have misheard.__

__“The family name is plain Smith”, he explained, “but when his wife had their first son she nearly died. She asked that he be given her maiden name; part-French I think she is. Even though she pulled through he still became Mr. Debonair Smith.”_ _

__I bit back a smile._ _

__“This 'debonair' gentleman is the problem, then?” Sherlock asked, eyeing me warningly for some reason._ _

__“He keeps having trouble with his horses when he is riding them”, the sergeant explained. “He had the vet look over the whole lot, but he found nothing. Then one nearly threw him off the other day.”_ _

__“Is there anyone who might have motive to wish him an injury?” I asked. The sergeant snorted._ _

__“Only the people who have met him, sirs!” he grinned._ _

___That_ sort of squire's son. Again!_ _

__“Is there anyone whom you suspect in particular?” Sherlock asked._ _

__“Too many suspects”, the sergeant sighed. “Especially the way he goes round yelling at everyone is causing bad feeling in the town. He even started on poor Joe the other week.”_ _

__“Who is 'Joe'?” I asked._ _

__“The new smith after his father had to retire”, the sergeant said. “He.... I do not like to say that he is slow but sometimes you can actually see the thoughts running around in his head, trying to find a way out. But he is one of the most good-hearted fellows in the town, always ready to do a kindness for anyone. I think Mr. Debonair only chose to go after him because he knew he would not fight back, despite the fact that Joe could probably screw him up into a ball and throw him all the way into Lancashire!”_ _

___(This would have been an impressive achievement, although perhaps not as much as might have been thought because a few outlying houses just south of the town the other side of the River Lune were actually in Lancashire)._ _ _

__“I can see at least two ways in which it might be being done”, Sherlock said. “Does this debonair fellow have any siblings?”_ _

__“Two brothers and three sisters, sirs”, the sergeant said. “None of them much cop although none are anything like as bad as he is. Miss Deborah is the best of the bunch; she always says that any animal that throws her brother off is showing damn good taste!”_ _

__I smiled at that._ _

__“I have an idea as to how we might solve this”, I said, “but it depends on being able to secure the irksome fellow's horse the next time it tries to throw him. If you can ask him to loan it to you for an examination, sergeant then we may be able to solve this case, as much as it can be solved.”_ _

__The sergeant looked at him in surprise._ _

____

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We did not have to wait long for a sighting of our quarry, for when we were down by the bridge the very next day we saw Mr. Debonair Smith riding through town. Much as I generally esteem the British aristocracy this one.... oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Little wonder that he was always getting thrown; his nose was so elevated that I doubted he could see anything (or anyone) that he was riding his horse over. I thought that he was not much more than twenty; it was hard to tell with his nose so high.

“If LeStrade was here he would be calling him a right toff!” I observed. “Although of course that is impossible.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“Because today is Mrs. Malone's baking day”, I grinned, “and I doubt that LeStrade will be three hundred inches from Baker Street, let alone three hundred miles!”

He smiled at that, and we watched as the proud fellow rode on and somehow managed to find his way to the smithy near the river. He managed to dismount without breaking anything (unfortunately) and went inside. Soon after there was the distinct sound of shouting which lasted for several minutes before the squire's son emerged, managed to clamber inelegantly back onto his horse, and rode off scowling. A huge fellow came out of the smithy, heavily muscled and at least twice the size of his tormentor although probably not that much older, and stared after him.

“That must be Joe”, Sherlock said. “He looks quite murderous.”

“Do we _have_ to try to stop him?” I asked hopefully.

He had no right to look disapprovingly at me like that. It was a perfectly fair question!

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The following day I was not feeling quite as sassy as I had when I had made that remark the day before. In fact, after a night of almost non-stop sex I was not feeling anything much. Sherlock, as ever, looked totally unruffled which was just not fair!

“I hope that I have explained the importance of securing justice”, he said sententiously.

“I would settle for securing the ground, wherever that is!” I grumbled. “I shall be forty-five next year and I would quite like to make it in one piece!”

“Then only five more years to fifty!” he said brightly.

There were some definite downsides to being married to a genius! Harrumph!

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Sherlock made a couple of inquiries over the next two days but did not seem to actually do much (although he certainly did _me_ several times, and my hopes for exploring the area were curtailed as I could barely walk most of the time!). However on the third day we had a visitor to our inn. Miss Deborah Smith.

“Thank you for coming, madam”, Sherlock said.

The young lady was about twenty-three years of age, and dressed in what I thought was a rather manly fashion. And no, of course that did not stop her simpering at the one of us who could still sit down without needing a cushion! Harrumph again!

“You asked to see me, sir”, Miss Smith said. “What was it about, pray?”

“Horse-chestnuts”, Sherlock said.

That seemed to make no sense at all, but the lady reddened at once.

“He is an annoying dolt”, she said sharply, “and he treats animals worse than he does people, hard though that seems to believe.”

“You deliberately placing a spur beneath his saddle so his horse might throw him is also cruel to the animal”, Sherlock said. “I might also point out that if he were injured or even killed by a fall caused by one of your weapons, you yourself would be liable.”

“Someone has to stop him”, she said. “Father thinks that the sun shines out of his debonair derrière!”

I smiled at that.

“I am sure that there are other ways”, Sherlock said, looking at me with another disapproving look. “Allow me a few days before there there are any more equine 'accidents' and I will see what I can do.”

But as it happened, he did not need to.

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The following day we were waking around the town – all right, Sherlock was walking and I was limping slightly – and we decided to visit the young smith. We had not been there five minutes however when Mr. Debonair rode in, dismounted and strode into the smithy.

“Barker!” he barked, ignoring us completely, “my horse nearly threw me going home yesterday. You re-shod him only last week. Ye Gods man, what did you to do the dumb animal?”

 _He re-shod the wrong dumb animal, for one thing_ , I thought wryly. I saw a twitch in the huge smith's face but otherwise he remained impassive against the assault.

“I think we should have our own smith in town instead of you”, Mr. Debonair continued. “Someone at least half-competent......”

I do not know just how, but suddenly there was a tangible change in the atmosphere. The smith's broad face darkened in seconds and he glowered at the small man before him.

“Your daddy never beat any manners into you like he should have done!” he snarled. “High time someone put that to rights!”

He stepped swiftly forwards and managed to grab the smaller man almost under one arm, taking him over to where one of the metal roof supports stretched from floor to ceiling. There were various hooks up and down its length, and the smith swept them all off before grabbing a rope and tying Mr. Debonair to the pole by his wrists. The squire's son struggled but he was no match for the larger man.

“Barker!” he yelled. “Put me down! What the blazes are you playing at?”

The smith finished his work then grabbed his victim's belt and dragged his trousers down in one swift move. Then he moved to the side of the fellow and started flexing a large strap of leather between his hands. I could see the exact moment when the squire's son realized what was about to happen.

“No!” he gasped. “You can't! This is _me_ , damnation!”

“Time for some manners!” the smith grinned. He swung the leather strap back then swatted it against his victim's pale buttocks. Given his size he was I suspected not using his full strength, but the scream from the victim was loud enough.

“Help!” he yelled in panic. “You there! Fetch the police! This is assault!”

“Did you hear something, doctor?” Sherlock asked innocently.

I frowned and put my hand to my ear as if trying to listen.

“Must have been the wind”, I said dismissively.

The trapped man stared across at us in horror.

“You can't leave me......aaaiieeee!”

The smith gave it more force that time, and followed it up with four more before stopping. He stood back to look at his work, and a strange look came over his face.

“Well well”, he grinned. “So what they say is true. A bit of pain and you're hard as nails!”

I bit back a snigger. Sherlock and I had tried that as an experiment once, and being spanked had left me harder than I would have thought possible. Apparently it also worked on even the most annoying members of society.

An almost maniacal grin crossed the smith's face. It was the sort of look that makes one wonder where all the sharp implements in the vicinity are located, as well as the nearest available exit.

“I think I got me a new play toy!” he beamed. “Let's try six more!”

And with one hand be began delivering his next round of punishment to the fellow's rear while with the other he grabbed..... well, I knew what he had grabbed and I winced. Perhaps the squire's son might just be amending his manners ever so slightly in future.

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Postscriptum: Indeed he did. After that 'lesson' Mr. Debonair Smith became a reformed character, always polite to those in Kirkby Lonsdale and renowned in Westmorland society as a good philanthropist. He never married and when his father died he resigned his claim to the squiredom in favour of his younger brother. I am sure that that had no connection with his occasional (frequent) trips to the local smithy which were all totally for business. Totally.

Sherlock is sniggering for some strange reason.

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	24. Case 232: The Adventure Of The Veiled Lodger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. A dreadful case, not so much for itself but for what ensued from it. Sherlock investigates a play that seems bedevilled by bad luck and finds the source of that misfortune is rather too close to home.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

My readers will remember that, some little time back, Sherlock's father Sir Edward Holmes had warned and 'armed' us against the threat of a move against his youngest son by his sons Mycroft and Torver (my friend later confirmed as I had suspected the hand of Lady Holmes in this). Our next case that we undertook in that fateful year was when one of Sherlock's elder brothers did indeed impinge on our lives and that – with its terrible aftermath – was why my love was to take no cases in the latter half of that year.

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It was a fine spring day, with no sign of the horrors that were about to unfold. I was sat at my writing-desk (more than a little painfully; Sherlock had had one of his rare fits of morning energy and I really needed the cushion that my poor, abused, glowing and happy backside was currently resting on. I was busy writing a note to Stevie and Henrietta; their son Jack had recently had a very unpleasant bout of chickenpox and they were having her family over to celebrate his recovery.

“Your nephew is well now?”

I jumped. I had not noticed Sherlock putting his paper down, his blue eyes boring into mine from across the room.

“Yes”, I said. “I thought that I would give him some money to mark his recovery so he can choose a toy to buy. Fortunately my bank here has an arrangement with their local bank that enables me to do that.”

He looked as if he was about to comment on that but then simply nodded and went back to his paper.

“What is it?” I asked. I could see that something was on his mind.

He turned back to me and it was one of the few times that I had ever caught him looking uncertain.

“Would it be too forward if I gave the boy a gift as well?” he asked tentatively. “It is just......”

He seemed to grind to a halt. I smiled warmly at him.

“No child can ever have enough uncles”, I said. “Of course.”

“Uncle Sherlock”, he muttered and I could see how affected he was despite his stoicism. “I.... like that.”

Damn dusty room making his eyes water as well as mine. As I had said many times before, the maids really needed to do a better job.

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We had just finished finalizing the monetary arrangements when there was a knock at the door. It was Miss Thackeray, in charge of the house now that her mother and stepfather had decided to spend the best part of six months touring the United States (partly funded by Sherlock's and my wedding-present to them both). There was a lady with her whom she announced as 'Miss Millicent Lowery' before withdrawing. 

Our visitor was young but had a sense of purpose about her. Sherlock guided her over to the fireside chair and waited for her to sit before resuming his own chair.

“Thank you for seeing me, gentlemen”, she began. “I should begin by telling you that I am a friend of Miss Thackeray and work in the library that adjoins her school. What concerns me is a small matter that is probably nothing, but she tells me that some of your most important cases have begun from such seemingly trivial matters.”

I forbore from commenting that that was true only a small fraction of the time, and that the vast bulk of cases when something small devolved into nothing did not for obvious reasons get inflicted on my readers. Sherlock gave me his annoying mind-reading look and I blushed. Manfully, of course.

“That is indeed true”, my friend said, giving me another look. “Pray what is troubling you?”

She took a deep breath.

“It all seems so silly!” she said.

“Let the doctor and I be the judges of that”, Sherlock gently pressed. “Go on.”

“Miss Thackeray and I are friends through the theatrical society that we both partake in”, she said. “We recently decided that our next production was to be 'The Veiled Lodger'. Are either of you aware of the novel?”

“I am”, I admitted, blushing slightly when Sherlock looked across at me. “It was the first book by a Mr. Giles Wimborne who writes in a similar style to that of poor Mr. Oscar Wilde. It is a horror story with a twist about a man who becomes curious about a fellow lodger, a lady who always wears a veil, and tries to find out more only to wish that he had not.”

“What happens?” Sherlock asked. I blushed even more.

“The man falls in love with the mysterious lodger, only to find that 'she' is, or was, a man, who once disguised himself in order to hide out from his criminal colleagues”, I said. “They killed him in that room and his ghost is bound to it until someone discovers his body, which is buried nearby. The main character is shown where the body lies and the killers are caught and executed. The body is buried with all the proper rites so that the ghost can finally be laid to rest.”

It sounded even worse when I said it. My normal literature tastes were much better than this tat. Well, mostly better. The 'Doctor Calderon Bumper Extravaganza And Companion' on my shelf had after all been a gift from Sherlock which I obviously had to keep because.

“The twist?” Sherlock asked, doing that annoying not-smirk of his.

“The final scene is some months later when the main character meets a man in a theatrical group”, I said. “The second man is wearing a veil just like the dead one and looks exactly like him. The play within a play, like Shakespeare.”

“Indeed”, our visitor said. “The theme has in the circumstances proven both topical and controversial, especially with Mr. Wilde still in jail. Two of our members said that they felt uncomfortable with it which is of course perfectly fine; we do not compel anyone to do something that they would not wish. However since we began our preparations for the play, strange things have been happening.”

“What sort of strange things?” Sherlock asked.

“Only very minor ones”, she said, “which is why I was reluctant to make an issue of them. Small things going missing, scripts that were safely locked away disappearing, that sort of thing. A book that I left in a drawer for one scene which was not there when I went to retrieve it.”

“Do you suspect either of the two people who withdrew from the play?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head.

“Maybelle Adams hasn't a thought in her pretty little head”, she said wryly, “and Simeon Watkins is her male equivalent! The members who agreed to put on the play are all keen to do it but something about these happenings worries me.”

“Possibly with reason”, Sherlock said. “There seems little to go on at this moment in time, but I trust that you will inform the doctor and myself immediately there are any further developments?”

“I will, sir.”

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“It could just be forgetfulness or chance”, I mused after our visitor had left. Sherlock shook his head.

“Miss Lowery is sharp”, he said. “She senses danger here, and I rather fear that she is correct.”

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It was a week later. Sherlock had presumably made some inquiries into Miss Lowery's case but nothing had come of them as yet. He and I had just returned from the Empire Theatre in Leicester Square where we had seen a film entertainment by the Lumière brothers, a set of about a dozen short presentations none more than a minute long. I have to admit (because some blue-eyed personage insisted that I keep it in the story!) that I like many in the theatre jumped - manfully, in my case - at the sight of a railway locomotive rushing straight at us. There was no need for him to look so smug; I was sure that these 'moving pictures' would never catch on!

Miss Lowery was waiting for us in our rooms when we returned. She immediately presented Sherlock with a note.

“An anonymous letter”, she said gravely. “It came this morning. It threatens to burn down the theatre with us all inside it if we continue with 'this vile play'.”

Sherlock read the note and pursed his lips.

“Have you taken this to the police?” he asked. She shook her head.

“You have read it”, she said. “'The law cannot save you'. This is some madman that we are dealing with!”

We all sat down and Sherlock leaned across to Miss Lowery.

“Is there a date for the first performance?” he asked.

“That is another thing”, she said sounding angry now. “The local theatre had promised us that we could start next month but now the manager there says that he had the dates for the previous booking written down incorrectly and we cannot be fitted in until June. I believe that someone may have pressured him.”

“I can probably find out if they have”, Sherlock said. “May I ask how the cast members have responded to this threat?”

Miss Lowery smiled.

“It had hardened our resolve, sirs”, she said firmly. “We will not be bullied out of exercising the right to free speech, just like Mr. Voltaire said.”

“I shall strive to defend your right so to do”, Sherlock said. “May I keep this note? I can do certain tests on it that may reveal some things.”

“Of course”, she smiled.

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Two things should be said at this stage about my crime-solving abilities. First, I had next to none. But second, all my time with Sherlock had made me fluent in 'Sherlock-ese' and I sensed that there was something he had seen in the note that had unsettled him. Worse, unsettled him sufficiently not to share it with me. It hurt a little – all right, it hurt a lot - but I supposed that he must have had his reasons.

I did try looking at the note while he was out but apart from the obvious fact that it was written on quality paper – there were small ornate watermarks in all four corners as well as a larger one in the middle - and that the writer did something unnecessarily fancy with his (or her) letter 'G's, I could see nothing. Perhaps my writer's imagination was running away with me again.

I would probably have remained in the dark had it not been for a fortuitous circumstance two days later which showed me part of what my friend had discovered. I had by this time quit regular work at the surgery although I remained 'on call' to some of their most prestigious clients whom I had always tended in gratitude for the place's help in my early years. I also helped out my friend Sir Peter Greenwood and it was his younger sister Patricia, one of the few female doctors at the time, who called me in in this instance because one of her patients was being 'difficult' about being treated by a lady. I conferred with her then went to see this 'Mrs. Leonard'. 

It was while I was waiting to be shown up to the lady's rooms that I noticed the family portraits on the wall. Normally these would not have interested me in the slightest, except that one large family picture included.... Sherlock? I squinted – I would have to bow to the inevitable and get spectacles soon – but it was definitely him and I now recognized both Randall and Guilford from the picture as well. It was a Holmes family portrait!

All was made clear when I met Mrs. Charlotte Leonard, who turned out to be the second daughter of Sherlock's unpleasant elder brother Mycroft, she having recently married. She was pregnant with her first child and apparently there were all sorts of difficulties that she had not foreseen including food cravings, sickness and putting on weight (in a pregnancy? Who would have thought it!). I bit back a comment on certain apples not falling far from certain trees and did my best to calm her down, although I agreed to examine her while I was there if only to reassure her.

It was while she was undressing behind a screen that I was standing by her writing desk, idly staring at the blank pad before it registered. I looked closer and realized not only was the blank paper the same distinctive yellow-orange as Miss Lowery's anonymous letter but the watermarks were the same. Indeed I now recognized them for what they were – heavily stylized letter 'H's. But that was not the only thing that caught my attention. There was a short note from 'Uncle Torver' on the desk – and the two letter 'G's in it were the same fanciful scrawl as in the anonymous letter!

I do not know whether it was fortuitous or not that Mrs. Leonard sailed round from behind the screen at that moment. Somehow I tore my eyes away from the desk and began her examination.

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I mentioned my new patient to Sherlock that evening and that she was I supposed his niece. I like to pride myself that few would have spotted the faintest of flickers in his eyes when I mentioned his brothers. Was one or both of them behind the attempts to stop the play being shown? I was more wary because I knew that alone among Mr. Mycroft Holmes's five daughters only Mrs. Leonard maintained regular contact with her father, her four sisters having cut off dealings with him over what they rightly regarded as his foul treatment of their mother. It was all very worrying.

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The following week there was a further delay to Miss Lowery's schedule. She had hoped to be able to reduce the delay caused by the performers of the play on before hers to agree to shorten their run but, although they had initially agreed, they had now changed their minds and refused. Our client was particularly annoyed as she had just had the advertising posters printed with the new dates and now they would have to be partly covered over. It seemed a small thing at the time but events soon after showed that it was not. 

The very next day matters took an even more serious turn.

“Sherlock!”

My friend looked up from his coffee, still bleary-eyed. Unfortunately the shop had failed to deliver his usual coffee and although I had of course gone out to fetch some from elsewhere he was still not back to his usual self. I read aloud from the article.

“'There was a major fire at the Garrick Lane Theatre last night which has severely damaged the building during a performance of 'Love's Labours Lost' by Mr. William Shakespeare'”, I read. “'Several audience members and two of the cast suffered injuries that were mostly smoke-related when a fire broke out in one of the back-rooms and then spread to the rest of the building. Fortunately firemen from two nearby stations were able to save the theatre and it is hoped that it will soon be putting on plays again.'”

He looked thoughtful.

“The posters for 'The Veiled Lodger' had just been posted, had they not?” he said.

I nodded. 

“Miss Lowery had not yet received the extra sheets with the new dates on so anyone coming to the theatre might have thought that that was the play that was going on inside.”

“Particularly if they attacked from the back and did not see any of the actors”, he said. “This is becoming deadly serious, John. It is time that we took measures.”

I little knew then what tragedy was about to result from this case. A real tragedy, not one of the theatrical variety.

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The theatre itself came through the fire surprisingly unscathed and with no structural damage, which meant that it could reopen in June. Even better the manager, a Mr. Mark Thacker, was found not only to have accepted money to delay the production of 'The Veiled Lodger', but to have dispatched a key to a post box in return for a large cash payment. Unfortunately that also meant that it was impossible to trace who the money or the directions came from, but I did notice that Sherlock was now tackling this case with a renewed vigour, in spite of other calls on his time. I very much feared the worst.

'The Veiled Lodger' was scheduled to belatedly open on Midsummer's Day of that year. Two days before that Mr. and Mrs. Malone arrived back from the trip to the United States with an unexpected guest. I have seen many variants on humanity in my time in 221B but few were more 'variant' that Mr. Kit Rockland, a sharp-eyed dark-skinned fellow in his late twenties and with a pony-tail of all things. I helped to carry the returning couple's bags in and was in time to see Miss Thackeray take one look at the newcomer and burst into fits of laughter, much to her aunt's annoyance. Mr. Rockland thankfully did not appear to mind and he became the new resident for Room Two. He had even brought with him a phonograph; fortunately one that was fairly quiet. Technology!

I had a growing feeling that a further assault on the theatre company would be made on the opening night, a feeling that only grew until we reached the morning of the twenty-fourth. Sherlock had of course taken preventative measures.

“We are expecting a visitor”, he announced that morning. “I would like you to stay if you do not mind but not to take notes, or at least not until after they are gone.”

“Of course”, I said wondering at the unusual request.

The morning predictably dragged and it was almost eleven before we heard a heavy tread on the stairs. The door opened to reveal a tall, heavily-set man with raven-black hair and a grim expression; I quickly recognized him as Mr. Torver Holmes from the portrait in Mr. Leonard's house. For some reason he threw a particularly nasty scowl in my direction before moving slowly to the fireside. 

“I will not sit”, he said darkly. “I do not wish to be here. What do you want?”

My friend did not seen surprised by our guest's rudeness.

“Greetings, brother”, he said.

“You are no brother of mine!” the visitor snapped. “Living this sort of lifestyle with...... him!”

He gestured towards me. I was lost.

“Torver”, Sherlock said slowly, “unless you can conduct yourself in a civilized manner while in the presence of my friend, you will have to leave. But believe me, you will not like what happens if you do.”

His words were underlain with menace. I shuddered. Our visitor scowled at him.

“Get on with it!” he said curtly.

“You will tell your agents to cease their efforts to prevent 'The Veiled Lodger' from taking place”, Sherlock said firmly. His brother glared at him.

“Why should I?” he demanded.

“Continental & General”, Sherlock said, as if that explained everything. It did not but it clearly meant something if the pallor that flushed our visitor's face was anything to go by.

“You only want to defend that bastard play because you are living that same filthy way with your 'wife' here!” he sneered. “Do not think we are unaware of this vice-ridden lifestyle of yours. If Mother and Father were not so damn broad-minded they would have thrown you out years ago!”

“I do not think that Father is broad-minded enough to forgive what you did”, Sherlock said. He pulled himself to his feet. “That is the deal. If one more thing happens to those actors or their theatre then I will let both Father and Mother know exactly what you did as regards that bank. Doubtless you will plead that what you did was technically legal but as we both know, Mother does not really grasp 'niceties', although she does have an excellent grasp on both her pistol and her doubly-reinforced walking-stick.”

“Rot in Hell!”

Mr. Torver Holmes was physically larger (or at least wider) than his brother but as they squared up by the fireplace it was the younger sibling who seemed to stand tall. I tensed ready to leap across and defend my friend but our unwelcome visitor gave a guttural snarl before turning on his heel and leaving, slamming the door behind him. 

I stared in astonishment until Sherlock sighed and all but fell back into his own chair. I hurried over to kneel beside him and he smiled at me.

“You suspected?” he asked. I nodded.

“His niece's house”, I said. “There was a note from him in the same writing and on the same paper as Miss Lowery's threatening letter. Why did he write the notes himself, I wonder?”

“Torver has always been a bully”, he said with a heavy sigh. I placed my hand over his and smiled.

“What did he do with 'Continental & General'?” I asked.

“A few years back Father decided to buy into that bank”, he explained. “Somehow my brother got wind of his plans and bought in first, then sold all his shares just as Father's interest had forced the share price up. Father lost heavily but Torver had covered his tracks well. Or so he thought.”

“Then how did you find out?” I asked. 

He hesitated.

“Those files Father brought me – us – last year”, he said. “He and Mother knew that either Mycroft or Torver might move against me or Luke, so they gave us both some 'ammunition'. Of course he knows about Torver's financial chicanery and Mycroft's sexual shenanigans but they both think that he is in the dark. Which means that neither will be able to do anything even after Father passes. They would be too afraid that we might use the information in a legal defence, or worse, go to the newspapers with it. It would be social ruin for one or both of them.”

I nodded but noticed how strained he looked from the encounter with his bigoted brother. I had an idea.

“We are going to see the play tonight, are we not?” I said.

“Yes”, he said. “Miss Lowery has secured us a box. Why?”

I smiled.

“I expect you feel somewhat soiled after that encounter”, I said. “What you need is a nice hot bath. Something to enable you to relax.”

The look he gave me was positively feral.

“If you are thinking what I think you are thinking”, he growled, “I do not think such a thing would be all that relaxing.”

“Well”, I sighed expressively, “If you would rather not....”

“You, naked, bathroom!” he almost snarled. I grinned and almost ran into our bathroom, and began to run the bath making sure to add plenty of his bubble-bath under the tap.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We just made it to the theatre on time and Miss Lowery was delighted to see us. The play was not overly long so there would be no intermission, and we were shown straight up to our box which was the second one back from the stage. It was almost pitch-dark except for the weak light thrown from the single gas-lamp which Sherlock turned off as soon as I was seated.

The play itself was good and I wished that I could have empathized more with Dewey, the lead character. However, I was more than a little distracted, both by the cock-ring that Sherlock had put on me, and the vibrator that was gently teasing my prostate throughout the performance. That and a smooth hand from a certain blue-eyed genius which had slipped slowly but surely past my waistband and had spent much of the play rubbing my cock, sometimes gently and sometimes faster. It was an exquisite torture, helped by the fact that I was enjoying both it and the look of contentment on my lover's face. And not helped by the prospect of a bumpy cab-ride back to Baker Street since I knew that Sherlock would not allow me to come until we were home.

“John”, he whispered quietly. 

“Yes?” I croaked, my eyes watering as his clever fingers teased my balls.

“I love you.”

Some inner instinct made me grit my teeth and it was just as well for at that moment my theories about being able to break a cock-ring were proven all too right. I came all over Sherlock's hand and he looked only momentarily surprised before smiling with pleasure.

“Not bad for a forty-four-year-old”, he praised. “I shall make sure that the next one I buy is reinforced.”

I was too busy trying to get my breathing back to say anything so I had no defence when I suddenly felt cold steel back around the base of my cock.

“You... you brought a _spare?”_ I hissed, my voice sounding far too loud in the dark.

“I never underestimate my man!” he grinned. “Just as well, it turns out. Now, let us see if we can get you back to where we were.....”

Yes, he was definitely going to kill me one of these days. But I would just have to come back as a ghost. I wondered if ghosts could have sex....

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Unfortunately we had not seen the last of Mr. Torver Holmes.

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End file.
